"-.'".'.--. 
MODERN 

ITALIAN   POETS 

ESSAYS    AND    VERSIONS 


BY 


W.   D.  HOWELLS 


WITH  PORTRAITS 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1887 


Copyright,  1887,  by  WM.  D.  HOWELLS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Hi. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 
INTRODUCTION 1 

ARCADIAN  SHEPHERDS 11 

GIUSEPPE  PARINI 25 

VITTORIO  ALFIERI 51 

VINCENZO  MONTI 102 

UGO  FOSCOLO 116 

ALESSANDRO  MANZONI 126 

SILVIO  PELLICO >....- 175 

TOMMASO  G-ROSSI 178 

_LyiGi  CARRER 184 

GIOVANNI  BERCHET 188 

GlAMBATTISTA   NlCCOLINI 196 

GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 244 

GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 275 

FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO 300 

GIOVANNI  PRATI 323 

— -'  — 

ALEARDO  ALEARDI 333 

GIULIO  CARCANO 360 

ARNALDO  FUSINATO 362 

LUIGI  MERCANTINI 366 

CONCLUSION  . .  .  369 


PORTRAITS. 

PAGE 
VITTORIO  ALFIEKI 56 

VINCENZO  MONTI 106 

UGO  FOSCOLO 124 

ALESSANDRO  MANZONI 136 

TOMMASO  GROSSI 178 

GlAMBATTISTA   NlCCOLINI 208 

GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 248 

GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 280 

FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO 308 

GIOVANNI  PRATI 326 

ALEARDO  ALEARDI....  .  336 


INTRODUCTION 

THIS  book  has  grown  out  of  studies  begun 
twenty  years  ago  in  Italy,  and  continued  fitfully, 
as  I  found  the  mood  and  time  for  them,  long 
after  their  original  circumstance  had  become  a 
pleasant  memory.  If  any  one  were  to  say  that  it 
did  not  fully  represent  the  Italian  poetry  of  the 
period  which  it  covers  chronologically,  I  should 
applaud  his  discernment  5  and  perhaps  I  should 
not  contend  that  it  did  much  more  than  indicate 
the  general  character  of  that  poetry.  At  the  same 
time,  I  think  that  it  does  not  ignore  any  principal 
name  among  the  Italian  poets  of  the  great  move 
ment  which  resulted  in  the  national  freedom  and 
unity,  and  it  does  form  a  sketch,  however  slight 
and  desultory,  of  the  history  of  Italian  poetry 
during  the  hundred  years  ending  in  1870. 

Since  that  time,  literature  has  found  in  Italy 
the  scientific  and  realistic  development  which  has 
marked  it  in  all  other  countries.  The  romantic 
school  came  distinctly  to  a  close  there  with  the 
close  of  the  long  period  of  patriotic  aspiration 
and  endeavor  •  but  I  do  not  know  the  more  recent 
work,  except  in  some  of  the  novels,  and  I  have 
not  attempted  to  speak  of  the  newer  poetry  repre- 
1 


£•--  ;    ,-.'  ;    '  \'  '  ,    MOJ>FR^    ITALIAN    POETS. 

sented  by  Carducci.  The  translations  here  are  my 
own;  I  have  tried  to  make  them  faithful 5  I  am 
sure  they  are  careful. 

Possibly  I  should  not  offer  my  book  to  the  public 
at  all  if  I  knew  of  another  work  in  English  study 
ing  even  with  my  incoherence  the  Italian  poetry 
of  the  time  mentioned,  or  giving  a  due  impression 
of  its  extraordinary  solidarity.  It  forms  part  of 
the  great  intellectual  movement  of  which  the  most 
unmistakable  signs  were  the  French  revolution,  and 
its  numerous  brood  of  revolutions,  of  the  first, 
second,  and  third  generations,  throughout  Europe  j 
but  this  poetry  is  unique  in  the  history  of  litera 
ture  for  the  unswerving  singleness  of  its  tendency. 

The  boundaries  of  epochs  are  very  obscure,  and 
of  course  the  poetry  of  the  century  closing  in  1870 
has  much  in  common  with  earlier  Italian  poetry. 
Parini  did  not  begin  it,  nor  Alfieri ;  it  began  them, 
and  its  spirit  must  have  been  felt  in  the  perfumed 
air  of  the  soft  Lorrainese  despotism  at  Florence 
when  Filicaja  breathed  over  his  native  land  the 
sigh  which  makes  him  immortal.  Yet  finally, 
every  age  is  individual ;  it  has  a  moment  of  its 
own  when  its  character  has  ceased  to  be  general, 
and  has  not  yet  begun  to  be  general,  and  it  is  one 
of  these  moments  which  is  eternized  in  the  poetry 
before  us.  It  was,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other 
poetry  in  the  world,  an  incident  and  an  instru 
ment  of  the  political  redemption  of  the  people 
among  whom  it  arose.  "  In  free  and  tranquil  coun 
tries,"  said  the  novelist  Guerrazzi  in  conversation 
with  M.  Monnier,  the  sprightly  Swiss  critic,  recently 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

dead,  who  wrote  so  much  and  so  well  about  modern 
Italian  literature,  "men  have  the  happiness  and 
the  right  to  be  artists  for  art's  sake :  with  us,  this 
would  be  weakness  and  apathy.  When  I  write  it 
is  because  I  have  something  to  do  ;  my  books  are 
not  productions,  but  deeds.  Before  all,  here  in 
Italy  we  must  be  men.  When  we  have  not  the 
sword,  we  must  take  the  pen.  We  heap  together  ma 
terials  for  building  batteries  and  fortresses,  and  it 
is  our  misfortune  if  these  structures  are  not  works 
of  art.  To  write  slowly,  coldly,  of  our  times  and 
of  our  country,  with  the  set  purpose  of  creating  a 
chef-tfceuvre,  would  be  almost  an  impiety.  When  I 
compose  a  book,  I  think  only  of  freeing  my  soul, 
of  imparting  my  idea  or  my  belief.  As  vehicle,  I 
choose  the  form  of  romance,  since  it  is  popular  and 
best  liked  at  this  day ;  my  picture  is  my  thoughts, 
my  doubts,  or  my  dreams.  I  begin  a  story  to 
draw  the  crowd ;  when  I  feel  that  I  have  caught  its 
ear,  I  say  what  I  have  to  say;  when  I  think  the 
lesson  is  growing  tiresome,  I  take  up  the  anecdote 
again  ;  and  whenever  I  can  leave  it,  I  go  back  to  my 
moralizing.  Detestable  aesthetics,  I  grant  you  j  my 
works  of  siege  will  be  destroyed  after  the  war,  I 
don't  doubt  $  but  what  does  it  matter  ? n 


4  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

II 

THE  political  purpose  of  literature  in  Italy  had 
become  conscious  long  before  Guerrazzi's  time; 
but  it  was  the  motive  of  poetry  long  before  it  be 
came  conscious.  When  Alfieri,  for  example,  began 
to  write,  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury,  there  was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
future  of  Italy  was  ever  to  differ  very  much  from 
its  past.  Italian  civilization  had  long  worn  a 
fixed  character,  and  Italian  literature  had  re 
flected  its  traits ;  it  was  soft,  unambitious,  ele 
gant,  and  trivial.  At  that  time  Piedmont  had  a 
king  whom  she  loved,  but  not  that  free  constitu 
tion  which  she  has  since  shared  with  the  whole 
peninsula.  Lombardy  had  lapsed  from  Spanish  to 
Austrian  despotism  ;  the  Republic  of  Venice  still 
retained  a  feeble  hold  upon  her  wide  territories  of 
the  main-land,  and  had  little  trouble  in  drugging 
any  intellectual  aspiration  among  her  subjects  with 
the  sensual  pleasures  of  her  capital.  Tuscany  was 
quiet  under  the  Lorrainese  dukes  who  had  suc 
ceeded  the  Medici ;  the  little  states  of  Modena  and 
Parma  enjoyed  each  its  little  court  and  its  little 
Bourbon  prince,  apparently  without  a  dream  of 
liberty;  the  Holy  Father  ruled  over  Bologna,  Fer- 
rara,  Ancona,  and  all  the  great  cities  and  towns  of 
the  Eomagna ;  and  Naples  was  equally  divided  be 
tween  the  Bourbons  and  the  bandits.  There  seemed 
no  reason,  for  anything  that  priests  or  princes  of 
that  day  could  foresee,  why  this  state  of  things 
should  not  continue  indefinitely  ;  and  it  would  be  a 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

long  story  to  say  just  why  it  did  not  continue. 
What  every  one  knows  is  that  the  French  revolution 
took  place,  that  armies  of  French  democrats  over 
ran  all  these  languid  lordships  and  drowsy  despot 
isms,  and  awakened  their  subjects,  more  or  less 
willingly  or  unwillingly,  to  a  sense  of  the  rights  of 
man,  as  Frenchmen  understood  them,  and  to  the 
approach  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  whole  of 
Italy  fell,  directly  or  indirectly,  under  French  sway ; 
the  Piedmontese  and  Neapolitan  kings  were  driven 
away,  as  were  the  smaller  princes  of  the  other 
states ;  the  Republic  of  Venice  ceased  to  be,  and 
the  Pope  became  very  much  less  a  prince,  if  not 
more  a  priest,  than  he  had  been  for  a  great  many 
ages.  In  due  time  French  democracy  passed  into 
French  imperialism,  and  then  French  imperialism 
passed  altogether  away ;  and  so  after  1815  came  the 
Holy  Alliance  with  its  consecrated  contrivances  for 
fettering  mankind.  Lombardy,  with  all  Venetia, 
was  given  to  Austria;  the  dukes  of  Parma,  of 
Modena,  and  Tuscany  were  brought  back  and 
propped  up  on  their  thrones  again.  The  Bourbons 
returned  to  Naples,  and  the  Pope's  temporal  glory 
and  power  were  restored  to  him.  This  condition  of 
affairs  endured,  with  more  or  less  disturbance  from 
the  plots  of  the  Carbonari  and  many  other  ineffec 
tual  aspirants  and  conspirators,  until  1848,  when,  as 
we  know,  the  Austrian  s  were  driven  out,  as  well  as 
the  Pope  and  the  various  princes  small  and  great, 
except  the  King  of  Sardinia,  who  not  only  gave  a 
constitution  to  his  people,  but  singularly  kept  the 
oath  he  swore  to  support  it.  The  Pope  and  the 


6  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

other  princes,  even  the  Austrians,  had  given  con 
stitutions  and  sworn  oaths,  but  their  memories  were 
bad,  and  their  repute  for  veracity  was  so  poor  that 
they  were  not  believed  or  trusted.  The  Italians 
had  then  the  idea  of  freedom  and  independence,  but 
not  of  unity,  and  their  enemies  easily  broke,  one  at 
a  time,  the  power  of  states  which,  even  if  bound 
together,  could  hardly  have  resisted  their  attack.  In 
a  little  while  the  Austrians  were  once  more  in  Milan 
and  Venice,  the  dukes  and  grand-dukes  in  their 
different  places,  the  Pope  in  Rome,  the  Bourbons 
in  Naples,  and  all  was  as  if  nothing  had  been,  or 
worse  than  nothing,  except  in  Sardinia,  where  the 
constitution  was  still  maintained,  and  the  founda 
tions  of  the  present  kingdom  of  Italy  were  laid. 
Carlo  Alberto  had  abdicated  on  that  battle-field 
where  an  Austrian  victory  over  the  Sardinians 
sealed  the  fate  of  the  Italian  states  allied  with 
him,  and  his  son,  Victor  Emmanuel,  succeeded 
him.  As  to  what  took  place  ten  years  later,  when  the 
Austrians  were  finally  expelled  from  Lombardy, 
and  the  transitory  sovereigns  of  the  duchies  and  of 
Naples  flitted  for  good,  and  the  Pope's  dominion 
was  reduced  to  the  meager  size  it  kept  till  1871, 
and  the  Italian  states  were  united  under  one  consti 
tutional  king — I  need  not  speaks 

In  this  way  the  governments  of  Italy  had  been 
four  times  wholly  changed,  and  each  of  these 
changes  was  attended  by  the  most  marked  varia 
tions  in  the  intellectual  life  of  the  people  j  yet  its 
general  tendency  always  continued  the  same. 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

III 

THE  longing  for  freedom  is  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  in  literature ;  and,  consciously  or  un 
consciously,  the  Italian  poets  of  the  last  hundred 
years  constantly  inspired  the  Italian  people  with 
ideas  of  liberty  and  independence.  Of  course  the 
popular  movements  affected  literature  in  turn  • 
and  I  should  by  no  means  attempt  to  say  which 
had  been  the  greater  agency  of  progress.  It  is  not 
to  be  supposed  that  a  man  like  Alfieri,  with  all  his 
tragical  eloquence  against  tyrants,  arose  singly  out 
of  a  perfectly  servile  society.  His  time  was,  no 
doubt,  ready  for  him,  though  it  did  not  seem  so ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he 
gave  not  only  an  utterance  but  a  mighty  impulse 
to  contemporary  thought  and  feeling.  He  was  in 
literature  what  the  revolution  was  in  politics,  and 
if  hardly  any  principle  that  either  sought  imme 
diately  to  establish  now  stands,  it  is  none  the  less 
certain  that  the  time  had  come  to  destroy  what 
they  overthrew,  and  that  what  they  overthrew 
was  hopelessly  vicious. 

In  Alfieri  the  great  literary  movement  came 
from  the  north,  and  by  far  the  larger  number  of 
the  writers  of  whom  I  shall  have  to  speak  were 
northern  Italians.  Alfieri  may  represent  for  us 
the  period  of  time  covered  by  the  French  demo 
cratic  conquests.  The  principal  poets  under  the 
Italian  governments  of  Napoleon  during  the  first 
twelve  years  of  this  century  were  Vincenzo  Monti 
and  Ugo  Foscolo  —  the  former  a  Ferrarese  by 


MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

birth  and  the  latter  a  Greco-Venetian.  The  liter 
ary  as  well  as  the  political  center  was  then  Milan, 
and  it  continued  to  be  so  for  many  years  after  the 
return  of  the  Austrians,  when  the  so-called  School 
of  Resignation  flourished  there.  This  epoch  may 
be  most  intelligibly  represented  by  the  names  of 
Manzoni,  Silvio  Pellieo,  and  Tommaso  Grossi  —  all 
Lombards.  About  1830  a  new  literary  life  began 
to  be  felt  in  Florence  under  the  indrfferentism  or 
toleration  of  the  grand-dukes.  The  chiefs  of  this 
school  were  Giacomo  Leopardi ;  Giambattista 
Mecolini,  the  author  of  certain  famous  tragedies 
of  political  complexion  5  Guerrazzi,  the  writer  of 
a  great  number  of  revolutionary  romances;  and 
Giuseppe  Giusti,  a  poet  of  very  marked  and  pecu 
liar  powers,  and  perhaps  the  greatest  political 
satirist  of  the  century.  The  chief  poets  of  a 
later  time  were  Aleardo  Aleardi,  a  Veronese ;  Gio 
vanni  Prati,  who  was  born  in  the  Trentino,  near 
the  Tyrol $  and  Francesco  Dall  Ongaro,  a  native  of 
Trieste.  I  shall  mention  all  these  and  others  par 
ticularly  hereafter,  and  I  have  now  only  named 
them  to  show  how  almost  entirely  the  literary  life 
of  militant  Italy  sprang  from  the  north.  There 
were  one  or  two  Neapolitan  poets  of  less  note, 
among  whom  was  Gabriele  Eosetti,  the  father  of 
the  English  Bosettis,  now  so  well  known  in  art  and 
literature. 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

IV 

IN  dealing  with  this  poetry,  I  naturally  seek 
to  give  its  universal  and  aesthetic  flavor  wher 
ever  it  is  separable  from  its  political  quality; 
for  I  should  not  hope  to  interest  any  one  else  in 
what  I  had  myself  often  found  very  tiresome.  I 
suspect,  indeed,  that  political  satire  and  invective 
are  not  relished  best  in  free  countries.  No  danger 
attends  their  exercise  ;  there  is  none  of  the  charm 
of  secrecy  or  the  pleasure  of  transgression  in  their 
production ;  there  is  no  special  poignancy  to  free 
administrations  in  any  one  of  ten  thousand  assaults 
upon  them;  the  poets  leave  this  sort  of  thing 
mostly  to  the  newspapers.  Besides,  we  have  not, 
so  to  speak,  the  grounds  that  such  a  long-strug 
gling  people  as  the  Italians  had  for  the  enjoyment 
of  patriotic  poetry.  As  an  average  American,  I 
have  found  myself  very  greatly  embarrassed  when 
required,  by  Count  Alfieri,  for  example,  to  hate 
tyrants.  Of  course  I  do  hate  them  in  a  general 
sort  of  way ;  but  having  never  seen  one,  how  is  it 
possible  for  me  to  feel  any  personal  fury  toward 
them?  When  the  later  Italian  poets  ask  me  to 
loathe  spies  and  priests  I  am  equally  at  a  loss.  I 
can  hardly  form  the  idea  of  a  spy,  of  an  agent  of 
the  police,  paid  to  haunt  the  steps  of  honest  men, 
to  overhear  their  speech,  and,  if  possible,  entrap 
them  into  a  political  offense.  As  to  priests  — 
well,  yes,  I  suppose  they  are  bad,  though  I  do 
not  know  this  from  experience;  and  I  find  them 
generally  upon  acquaintance  very  amiable.  But 
l* 


10  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

all  this  was  different  with  the  Italians :  they 
had  known,  seen,  and  felt  tyrants,  both  foreign 
and  domestic,  of  every  kind  ;  spies  and  informers 
had  helped  to  make  their  restricted  lives  anxious 
and  insecure  ;  and  priests  had  leagued  themselves 
with  the  police  and  the  oppressors  until  the  Church, 
which  should  have  been  kept  a  sacred  refuge  from 
all  the  sorrows  and  wrongs  of  the  world,  became 
the  most  dreadful  of  its  prisons.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  the  literature  of  these  people  should  have 
been  so  filled  with  the  patriotic  passion  of  their 
life;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  literature  is  not  as 
nobly  employed  in  exciting  men  to  heroism  and 
martyrdom  for  a  great  cause  as  in  the  purveyance 
of  mere  intellectual  delights.  What  it  was  in  Italy 
when  it  made  this  its  chief  business  we  may 
best  learn  from  an  inquiry  that  I  have  at  last 
found  somewhat  amusing.  It  will  lead  us  over 
vast  meadows  of  green  baize  enameled  with  artifi 
cial  flowers,  among  streams  that  do  nothing  but 
purl.  In  this  region  the  shadows  are  mostly 
brown,  and  the  mountains  are  invariably  horrid  ; 
there  are  tumbling  floods  and  sighing  groves ; 
there  are  naturally  nymphs  and  swains;  and  the 
chief  business  of  life  is  to  be  in  love  and  not  to 
be  in  love ;  to  burn  and  to  freeze  without  regard 
to  the  mercury.  Need  I  say  that  this  region  is 
Arcady  ? 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS 

ONE  day,  near  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  cen 
tury,  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  —  mostly 
poets  and  poetesses  according  to  their  thinking 
—  were  assembled  on  a  pleasant  hill  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Rome.  As  they  lounged  upon  the  grass, 
in  attitudes  as  graceful  and  picturesque  as  they 
could  contrive,  and  listened  to  a  sonnet  or  an  ode 
with  the  sweet  patience  of  their  race, —  for  they 
were  all  Italians, —  it  occurred  to  the  most  con 
scious  man  among  them  that  here  was  something 
uncommonly  like  the  Golden  Age,  unless  that  epoch 
had  been  nattered.  There  had  been  reading  and 
praising  of  odes  and  sonnets  the  whole  blessed 
afternoon,  and  now  he  cried  out  to  the  complai 
sant,  canorous  company,  "  Behold  Arcadia  revived 
in  us ! " 

This  struck  everybody  at  once  by  its  truth.  It 
struck,  most  of  all,  a  certain  Giovan  Maria  Cres- 
cimbeni,  honored  in  his  day  and  despised  in  ours 
as  a  poet  and  critic.  He  was  of  a  cold,  dull  tem 
perament;  "a  mind  half  lead,  half  wood/'  as  one 
Italian  writer  calls  him ;  but  he  was  an  inveterate 
maker  of  verses,  and  he  was  wise  in  his  own  gen 
eration.  He  straightway  proposed  to  the  tuneful 


12  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

atibes,  cavalieri  serventi,  and  precieuses,  who  went 
singing  and  love-making  up  and  down  Italy  in 
those  times,  the  foundation  of  a  new  academy,  to 
be  called  the  Academy  of  the  Arcadians. 

Literary  academies  were  then  the  fashion  in  Italy, 
and  every  part  of  the  peninsula  abounded  in  them. 
They  bore  names  fanciful  or  grotesque,  such  as 
The  Ardent,  The  Illuminated,  The  Unconquered, 
The  Intrepid,  or  The  Dissonant,  The  Sterile,  The 
Insipid,  The  Obtuse,  The  Astray,  The  Stunned,  and, 
they  were  all  devoted  to  one  purpose,  namely,  the 
production  and  the  perpetuation  of  twaddle.  It  is 
prodigious  to  think  of  the  incessant  wash  of  slip 
slop  which  they  poured  out  in  verse  ;  of  the  grave 
disputations  they  held  upon  the  most  trivial  ques 
tions;  of  the  inane  formalities  of  their  sessions. 
At  the  meetings  of  a  famous  academy  in  Milan, 
they  placed  in  the  chair  a  child  just  able  to  talk ;  a 
question  was  proposed,  and  the  answer  of  the  child, 
whatever  it  was,  was  held  by  one  side  to  solve  the 
problem,  and  the  debates,  pro  and  con,  followed 
upon  this  point.  Other  academies  in  other  cities 
had  other  follies ;  but  whatever  the  absurdity,  it 
was  encouraged  alike  by  Church  and  State,  and 
honored  by  all  the  great  world.  The  governments 
of  Italy  in  that  day,  whether  lay  or  clerical,  liked 
nothing  so  well  as  to  have  the  intellectual  life  of 
the  nation  squandered  in  the  trivialities  of  the 
academies  —  in  their  debates  about  nothing,  their 
odes  and  madrigals  and  masks  and  sonnets;  and 
the  greatest  politeness  you  could  show  a  stranger 
was  to  invite  him  to  a  sitting  of  your  academy ; 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS.  13 

to  be  furnished  with  a  letter  to  the  academy  in  the 
next  city  was  the  highest  favor  you  could  ask  for 
yourself. 

In  literature,  the  humorous  Bernesque  school 
had  passed ;  Tasso  had  long  been  dead ;  and  the 
Neapolitan  Marini,  called  the  Corrupter  of  Italian 
poetry,  ruled  from  his  grave  the  taste  of  the  time. 
This  taste  was  so  bad  as  to  require  a  very  despe 
rate  remedy,  and  it  was  professedly  to  counteract 
it  that  the  Academy  of  the  Arcadians  had  arisen. 

The  epoch  was  favorable,  and,  as  Emiliani-Giudici 
(whom  we  shall  follow  for  the  present)  teaches,  in 
his  History  of  Italian  Literature,  the  idea  of  Cres- 
cimbeni  spread  electrically  throughout  Italy.  The 
gayest  of  the  finest  ladies  and  gentlemen  the  world 
ever  saw,  the  illustrissimi  of  that  polite  age,  united 
with  monks,  priests,  cardinals,  and  scientific  think 
ers  in  establishing  the  Arcadia ;  and  even  popes 
and  kings  were  proud  to  enlist  in  the  crusade  for 
the  true  poetic  faith.  In  all  the  chief  cities  Arca 
dian  colonies  were  formed,  "  dependent  upon  the 
Roman  Arcadia,  as  upon  the  supreme  Arch-Flock," 
and  in  three  years  the  Academy  numbered  thirteen 
hundred  members,  every  one  of  whom  had  first 
been  obliged  to  give  proof  that  he  was  a  good  poet. 
They  prettily  called  themselves  by  the  names  of 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  out  of  Theocritus, 
and,  being  a  republic,  they  refused  to  own  any 
earthly  prince  or  ruler,  but  declared  the  Baby  Jesus 
to  be  the  Protector  of  Arcadia.  Their  code  of  laws 
was  written  in  elegant  Latin  by  a  grave  and 
learned  man,  and  inscribed  upon  tablets  of  marble. 


14  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

According  to  one  of  the  articles,  the  Academi 
cians  must  study  to  reproduce  the  customs  of  the 
ancient  Arcadians  and  the  character  of  their  poetry ; 
and  straightway  "  Italy  was  filled  on  every  hand 
with  Thyrses,  Menalches,  and  Meliboeuses,  who 
made  their  harmonious  songs  resound  the  names 
of  their  Chlorises,  their  Phyllises,  their  Niceas; 
and  there  was  poured  out  a  deluge  of  pastoral 
compositions/'  some  of  them  by  "earnest  thinkers 
and  philosophical  writers,  who  were  not  ashamed 
to  assist  in  sustaining  that  miserable  literary  vanity 
which,  in  the  history  o£  human  thought,  will  remain 
a  lamentable  witness  to  the  moral  depression  of 
the  Italian  nation." 

As  a  pattern  of  perfect  poetizing,  these  artless 
nymphs  and  swains  chose  Constanzo,  a  very  fair 
poet  of  the  sixteenth  century.  They  collected  his 
verse,  and  printed  it  at  the  expense  of  the  Acad 
emy;  and  it  was  established  without  dissent  that 
each  Arcadian  in  turn,  at  the  hut  of  some  conspicu 
ous  shepherd,  in  the  presence  of  the  keeper  (such 
was  the  jargon  of  those  most  amusing  unrealities), 
should  deliver  a  commentary  upon  some  sonnet  of 
Constanzo.  As  for  Crescimbeni,  who  declared  that 
Arcadia  was  instituted  "  strictly  for  the  purpose  of 
exterminating  bad  taste  and  of  guarding  against 
its  revival,  pursuing  it  continually,  wherever  it 
should  pause  or  lurk,  even  to  the  most  remote  and 
unconsidered  villages  and  hamlets  " —  Crescimbeni 
could  not  do  less  than  write  four  dialogues,  as  he 
did,  in  which  he  evolved  from  four  of  Constanzo's 
sonnets  all  that  was  necessary  for  Tuscan  lyric 
poetry. 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS.  15 

"  Tims,"  says  Emiliani-Giudici,  referring  to  the 
crusading  intent  of  Crescimbeni,  "  the  Arcadians 
were  a  sect  of  poetical  Sanfedists,  who,  taking  for 
example  the  zeal  and  performance  of  San  Domingo 
de  Guzman,  proposed  to  renew  in  literature  the 
scenes  of  the  Holy  Office  among  the  Albigenses. 
Happily,  the  fire  of  Arcadian  verse  did  not  really 
burn !  The  institution  was  at  first  derided,  then  it 
triumphed  and  prevailed  in  such  fame  and  great 
ness  that,  shining  forth  like  a  new  sun,  it  con 
sumed  the  splendor  of  the  lesser  lights  of  heaven, 
eclipsing  the  glitter  of  all  those  academies  —  the 
Thunderstruck,  the  Extravagant,  the  Humid,  the 
Tipsy,  the  Imbeciles,  and  the  like  —  which  had 
hitherto  formed  the  glory  of  the  Peninsula." 


GIUSEPPE  TORELLI,  a  charming  modern  Italian 
writer,  in  a  volume  called  Paessaggi  e  Profili 
(Landscapes  and  Profiles),  makes  a  study  of  Carlo 
Innocenzo  Frugoni,  one  of  the  most  famous  of 
the  famous  Arcadian  shepherds ;  and  from  this 
we  may  learn  something  of  the  age  and  society  in 
which  such  a  folly  could  not  only  be  possible  but 
illustrious.  The  patriotic  Italian  critics  and  his 
torians  are  apt  to  give  at  least  a  full  share  of  blame 
to  foreign  rulers  for  the  corruption  of  their  nation, 


16  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

and  Signor  Torelli  finds  the  Spanish  domination 
over  a  vast  part  of  Italy  responsible  for  the  degra 
dation  of  Italian  mind  and  manners  in  the  seven 
teenth  century.  He  declares  that,  because  of  the 
Spaniards,  the  Italian  theater  was  then  silent,  "  or 
filled  with  the  noise  of  insipid  allegories";  there  was 
little  or  no  education  among  the  common  people  ; 
the  slender  literature  that  survived  existed  solely 
for  the  amusement  and  distinction  of  the  great; 
the  army  and  the  Church  were  the  only  avenues  of 
escape  from  obscurity  and  poverty ;  all  classes  were 
sunk  in  indolence. 

The  social  customs  were  mostly  copied  from 
France,  except  that  purely  Italian  invention,  the 
cavaliere  servente,  who  was  in  great  vogue.  But 
there  were  everywhere  in  the  cities  coteries  of  fine 
ladies,  called  preziose,  who  were  formed  upon  the 
French  precieuses  ridiculed  by  Moliere,  and  were,  I 
suppose,  something  like  what  is  called  in  Boston 
demi-semi-literary  ladies  —  ladies  who  cultivated 
alike  the  muses  and  the  modes.  The  preziose  held 
weekly  receptions  at  their  houses,  and  assembled 
poets  and  cavaliers  from  all  quarters,  who  enter 
tained  the  ladies  with  their  lampoons  and  gallan 
tries,  their  madrigals  and  gossip,  their  sonnets  and 
their  repartees.  "  Little  by  little  the  poets  had  the 
better  of  the  cavaliers  :  a  felicitous  rhyme  was  val 
ued  more  than  an  elaborately  constructed  compli 
ment."  And  this  easy  form  of  literature  became 
the  highest  fashion.  People  hastened  to  call  them 
selves  by  the  sentimental  pastoral  names  of  the 
Arcadians,  and  almost  forgot  their  love-intrigues 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS.  17 

so  much  were  they  absorbed  in  the  production  and 
applause  of  "  toasts,  epitaphs  for  dogs,  verses  on 
wagers,  epigrams  on  fruits,  on  Echo,  on  the  Mar 
chioness's  canaries,  on  the  Saints.  These  were  read 
here  and  repeated  there,  declaimed  in  the  public  re 
sorts  and  on  the  promenades,"  and  gravely  studied 
and  commented  on.  A  strange  and  surprising 
jargon  arose,  the  utterance  of  the  feeblest  and 
emptiest  affectation.  u  In  those  days  eyes  were  not 
eyes,  but  pupils ;  not  pupils,  but  orbs  ;  not  orbs, 
but  the  Devil  knows  what/7  says  Sign  or  Torelli,  los 
ing  patience.  It  was  the  golden  age  of  pretty  words : 
and  as  to  the  sense  of  a  composition,  good  society 
troubled  itself  very  little  about  that.  Good  society 
expressed  itself  in  a  sort  of  poetical  gibberish,  "  and 
whoever  had  said,  for  example,  Muses  instead  of 
Castalian  Divinities,  would  have  passed  for  a  low 
bred  person  dropped  from  some  mountain  village. 
Men  of  fine  mind,  rich  gentlemen  of  leisure,  brill 
iant  and  accomplished  ladies,  had  resolved  that  the 
time  was  come  to  lose  their  wits  academically." 


TI 

IN  such  a  world  Arcadia  nourished ;  into  such  a 
world  that  illustrious  shepherd,  Carlo  Innocenzo 
Frugoni,  was  born.  He  was  the  younger  son  of  a 
noble  family  of  Genoa,  and  in  youth  was  sent  into 
a  cloister  as  a  genteel  means  of  existence  rather 


18  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

than  from  regard  to  his  own  wishes  or  fitness.  He 
was,  in  fact,  of  a  very  gay  and  mundane  temper, 
and  escaped  from  his  monastery  as  soon  as  ever 
he  could,  and  spent  his  long  life  thereafter  at  the 
comfortable  court  of  Parma,  where  he  sang  with 
great  constancy  the  fortunes  of  varying  dynasties 
and  celebrated  in  his  verse  all  the  polite  events  of 
society.  Of  course,  even  a  life  so  pleasant  as  this 
had  its  little  pains  and  mortifications ;  and  it  is  his 
tory  that  when,  in  1731,  the  last  duke  of  the  Far- 
nese  family  died,  leaving  a  widow,  "Frugoni  pre 
dicted  and  maintained  in  twenty-five  sonnets  that 
she  would  yet  give  an  heir  to  the  duke ;  but  in  spite 
of  the  twenty-five  sonnets  the  affair  turned  out 
otherwise,  and  the  extinction  of  the  house  of  Far- 
nese  was  written." 

Frugoni,  however,  was  taken  into  favor  by  the 
Spanish  Bourbon  who  succeeded,  and  after  he  had 
got  himself  unfrocked  with  infinite  difficulty  (and 
only  upon  the  intercession  of  divers  princes  and 
prelates),  he  was  as  happy  as  any  man  of  real  tal 
ent  could  be  who  devoted  his  gifts  to  the  merest 
intellectual  trifling.  Not  long  before  his  death  he 
was  addressed  by  one  that  wished  to  write  his  life. 
He  made  answer  that  he  had  been  a  versifier  and 
nothing  more,  epigrammatically  recounted  the 
chief  facts  of  his  career,  and  ended  by  saying,  "  of 
what  I  have  written  it  is  not  worth  while  to  speak" ; 
and  posterity  has  upon  the  whole  agreed  with 
him,  though,  of  course,  no  edition  of  the  Italian, 
classics  would  be  perfect  without  him.  We  know 
this  from  the  classics  of  our  own  tongue,  which 
abound  in  marvels  of  insipidity  and  emptiness. 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS.  19 

But  all  this  does  not  make  him  less  interesting 
as  a  figure  in  that  amusing  literarified  society;  and 
we  may  be  glad  to  see  him  in  Parma  with  Signor 
Torelli's  eyes,  as  he  "  issues  smug,  ornate,  with  his 
well-fitting,  polished  shoe,  his  handsome  leg  in  its 
neat  stocking,  his  whole  immaculate  person,  and 
his  demure  visage,  and,  gently  sauntering  from 
Casa  Caprara,  takes  his  way  toward  Casa  Landi." 

I  do  not  know  Casa  Landi ;  I  have  never  seen 
it ;  and  yet  I  think  I  can  tell  you  of  it :  a  gloomy- 
fronted  pile  of  Romanesque  architecture,  the  lower 
story  remarkable  for  its  weather-stained,  vermicu- 
lated  stone,  and  the  ornamental  iron  gratings  at 
the  windows.  The  porte-cochere  stands  wide  open 
and  shows  the  leaf  and  blossom  of  a  lovely  garden 
inside,  with  a  tinkling  fountain  in  the  midst.  The 
marble  nymphs  and  naiads  inhabiting  the  shrub 
bery  and  the  water  are  already  somewhat  time- 
worn,  and  have  here  and  there  a  touch  of  envious 
mildew  ;  but  as  yet  their  noses  are  unbroken,  and 
they  have  all  the  legs  and  arms  that  the  sculptor 
designed  them  with ;  and  the  fountain,  which  after 
disasters  must  choke,  plays  prettily  enough  over 
their  nude  loveliness;  for  it  is  now  the  first  half 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  Casa  Landi  is  the 
uninvaded  sanctuary  of  Illustrissimi  and  Illustris- 
sime.  The  resplendent  porter  who  admits  our 
melodious  Abbate  Carlo,  and  the  gay  lackey  who 
runs  before  his  smiling  face  to  open  the  door  of 
the  sola  where  the  company  is  assembled;  may 
have  had  nothing  to  speak  of  for  breakfast,  but 
they  are  full  of  zeal  for  the  grandeur  they  serve, 
and  would  not  know  what  the  rights  of  man  were 


20  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

if  you  told  them.  They,  too,  have  their  idleness 
and  their  intrigues  and  their  life  of  pleasure  ;  but, 
poor  souls !  they  fade  pitiably  in  the  magnificence 
of  that  noble  assembly  in  the  sala.  What  coats  of 
silk  and  waistcoats  of  satin,  what  trig  rapiers  and 
flowing  wigs  and  laces  and  ruffles  j  and,  ah  me ! 
what  hoops  and  brocades,  what  paint  and  patches  ! 
Behind  the  chair  of  every  lady  stands  her  cavaliere 
servente,  or  bows  before  her  with  a  cup  of  choco 
late,  or,  sweet  abasement !  stoops  to  adjust  the 
foot-stool  better  to  her  satin  shoe.  There  is  a  buzz 
of  satirical  expectation,  no  doubt,  till  the  abbate 
arrives,  "  and  then,  after  the  first  compliments  and 
obeisances,"  says  Signor  Torelli,  "he  throws  his 
hat  upon  the  great  arm-chair,  recounts  the  chroni 
cle  of  the  gay  world,"  and  prepares  for  the  special 
entertainment  of  the  occasion. 

"  '  What  is  there  new  on  Parnassus  ? '  he  is  prob 
ably  asked. 

" '  Nothing',  he  replies,  l  save  the  bleating  of  a 
lambkin  lost  upon  the  lonely  heights  of  the  sacred 
hill; 

" '  I'll  wager,?  cries  one  of  the  ladies,  l  that  the 
shepherd  who  has  lost  this  lambkin  is  our  Abbate 
Carlo ! ' 

ut  And  what  can  escape  the  penetrating  eye  of 
Aglauro  Cidonia  ? '  retorts  Frugoni,  softly,  with  a 
modest  air. 

"  '  Let  us  hear  its  bleating ! '  cries  the  lady  of  the 
house. 

" l  Let  us  hear  it ! '  echo  her  husband  and  her 
cavaliere  servente. 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS.  21 

"  t  Let  us  hear  it ! 7  cry  one,  two,  three,  a  half- 
dozen,  visitors. 

"  Frugoni  reads  his  new  production ;  ten  excla 
mations  receive  the  first  strophe ;  the  second 
awakens  twenty  evvivas ;  and  when  the  reading  is 
ended  the  noise  of  the  plaudits  is  so  great  that 
they  cannot  be  counted.  His  new  production  has 
cost  Frugoni  half  an  hour's  work  $  it  is  possibly 
the  answer  to  some  Macaenas  who  has  invited  him 
to  his  country-seat,  or  the  funeral  eulogy  of  some 
well-known  cat.  Is  fame  bought  at  so  cheap  a 
rate  ?  He  is  a  fool  who  would  buy  it  dearer ;  and 
with  this  reasoning,  which  certainly  is  not  without 
foundation,  Frugoni  remained  Frugoni  when  he 
might  have  been  something  very  much  better.  .  . 
If  a  bird  sang,  or  a  cat  sneezed,  or  a  dinner 
was  given,  or  the  talk  turned  upon  anything  no 
matter  how  remote  from  poetry,  it  was  still  for 
Frugoni  an  invitation  to  some  impromptu  effusion. 
If  he  pricked  his  finger  in  mending  a  pen,  he  called 
from  on  high  the  god  of  Lemnos  and  all  the  iron 
workers  of  Olympus,  not  excepting  Mars,  whom  it 
was  not  reasonable  to  disturb  for  so  little,  and 
launched  innumerable  reproaches  at  them,  since 
without  their  invention  of  arms  a  penknife  would 
never  have  been  made.  If  the  heavens  cleared  up 
after  a  long  rain,  all  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  were 
laid  under  contribution  and  charged  to  give  an 
account  of  their  performance.  If  somebody  died,  he 
instantly  poured  forth  rivers  of  tears  in  company 
with  the  nymphs  of  Eridanus  and  Heliades ;  he 
upbraided  Phasthon,  Themis,  the  Shades  of  Erebus, 


22  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

and  the  Parca3.  .  .  The  Amaryllises,  the  Dryads, 
the  Fauns,  the  woolly  lambs,  the  shepherds,  the 
groves,  the  demigods,  the  Castalian  Virgins,  the 
loose-haired  nymphs,  the  leafy  boughs,  the  goat- 
footed  gods,  the  Graces,  the  pastoral  pipes,  and  all 
the  other  sylvan  rubbish  were  the  prime  materials 
of  every  poetic  composition." 


in 

SIGNOR  TORELLI  is  less  severe  than  Emiliani- 
Giudici  upon  the  founders  of  the  Arcadia,  and 
thinks  they  may  have  had  intentions  quite  dif 
ferent  from  the  academical  follies  that  resulted ; 
while  Leigh  Hunt,  who  has  some  account  of  the 
Arcadia  in  his  charming  essay  on  the  Sonnet,  feels 
none  of  the  national  shame  of  the  Italian  critics, 
and  is  able  to  write  of  it  with  perfect  gayety.  He 
finds  a  reason  for  its  amazing  success  in  the  child 
like  traits  of  Italian  character  ;  and,  reminding  his 
readers  that  the  JArcadia_w^as  established  in  1690^ 
declares  that  what  the  Englishmen  of  William  and 
Mary's  reign  would  have  received  with  shouts  of 
laughter,  and  the  French  under  Louis  XIY.  would 
have  corrupted  and  made  perilous  to  decency, 
"was  so  mixed  up  with  better  things  in  these 
imaginative  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  most  un 
affected  people,  the  Italians, —  for  such  they  are, — 


ARCADIAN    SHEPHERDS.  23 

that,  far  from  disgusting  a  nation  accustomed  to 
romantic  impulses  and  to  the  singing  of  poetry  in 
their  streets  and  gondolas,  their  gravest  and  most 
distinguished  men  and,  in  many  instances,  women, 
too,  ran  childlike  into  the  delusion.  The  best  of 
their  poets,"  the  sweet-tongued  Filicaja  among 
others,  "  accepted  farms  in  Arcadia  forthwith ; 
.  .  .  and  so  little  transitory  did  the  fashion  turn 
out  to  be,  that  not  only  was  Crescimbeni  its  active 
officer  for  eight-and- thirty  years,  but  the  society,  to 
whatever  state  of  insignificance  it  may  have  been 
reduced,  exists  at  the  present  moment." 

Leigh  Hunt  names  among  Englishmen  who  were 
made  Shepherds  of  Arcadia,  Malthias,  author  of 
the  "  Pursuits  of  Liter ature,"  and  JosephjCowper, 
"who  wrote  the  Memoirs  of  Tassoni  and  an  his 
torical  memoir  of  Italian  tragedy,"  Haly,  anol_Mrs. 
Thrale,  as  well  as  those  poor  Delia  Cru scans  whom 
bloody-minded  Gifford  champed  between  his  tusked 
jaws  in  his  now  forgotten  satires. 

Pope  Pius  VII.  gave  the  Arcadians  a  suite  of 
apartments  in  the  Vatican ;  but  I  dare  say  the 
wicked  tyranny  now  existing  at  Rome  has  deprived 
the  harmless  swains  of  this  shelter,  if  indeed  they 
had  not  been  turned  out  before  Victor  Emmanuel 
came. 

In  the  chapter  on  the  Arcadia,  with  which 
Vernon  Lee  opens  her  admirable  Studies  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century  in  Italy,  she  tells  us  of 
several  visits  which  she  recently  paid  to  the  Bosco 
Parrasio,  long  the  chief  fold  of  the  Academy. 
She  found  it  with  difficulty  on  the  road  to  the 


24  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Villa  Pamphili,  in  a  neighborhood  wholly  igno 
rant  of  Arcadia  and  of  the  relation  of  Bosco  Par- 
rasio  to  it.  "  The  house,  once  the  summer  resort 
of  Arcadian  sonneteers,  was  now  abandoned  to  a 
family  of  market-gardeners,  who  hung  their  hats 
and  jackets  on  the  marble  heads  of  improvvisatori 
and  crowned  poetesses,  and  threw  their  beans, 
maize,  and  garden-tools  into  the  corners  of  the 
desolate  reception-rooms,  from  whose  mildewed 
walls  looked  down  a  host  of  celebrities  —  brocaded 
doges,  powdered  princesses,  and  scarlet-robed  car 
dinals,  simpering  drearily  in  their  desolation/7  and 
"  sad,  haggard  poetesses  in  sea-green  and  sky-blue 
draperies,  with  lank,  powdered  locks  and  meager 
arms,  holding  lyres ;  fat,  ill-shaven  priests  in  white 
bands  and  mop- wigs;  sonneteering  ladies,  sweet 
and  vapid  in  dove-colored  stomachers  and  embroid 
ered  sleeves ;  jolly  extemporary  poets,  flaunting  in 
many-colored  waistcoats  and  gorgeous  shawls." 

But  whatever  the  material  adversity  of  Arcadia, 
it  still  continues  to  reward  ascertained  merit  by 
grants  of  pasturage  out  of  its  ideal  domains.  In- 
,  deed,  it  is  but  a  few  years  since  our  own  Long 
fellow,  on  a  visit  to  Rome,  was  waited  upon  by  the 
secretary  of  the  Arch-Flock,  and  presented,  after 
due  ceremonies  and  the  reading  of  a  floral  and  her 
baceous  sonnet,  with  a  parchment  bestowing  upon 
him  some  very  magnificent  possessions  in  that  ex 
traordinary  dreamland.  In  telling  me  of  this  he 
tried  to  recall  his  Arcadian  name,  but  could  only 
remember  that  it  was  "  Olympico  something." 


GIUSEPPE   PAEINI 


IN  1748  began  for  Italy  a  peace  of  nearly  fifty 
years,  when  the  Wars  of  the  Succession,  with  which 
the  contesting  strangers  had  ravaged  her  soil, 
absolutely  ceased.  In  Lombardy  the  Austrian 
rulers  who  had  succeeded  the  Spaniards  did  and 
suffered  to  be  done  many  things  for  the  material 
improvement  of  a  province  which  they  were  con 
tent  to  hold,  while  leaving  the  administration 
mainly  to  the  Lombards ;  the  Spanish  Bourbon  at 
Naples  also  did  as  little  harm  and  as  much  good 
to  his  realm  as  a  Bourbon  could;  Pier  Leopoldo 
of  Tuscany,  Don  Filippo  I.  of  Parma,  Francis  III. 
of  Modena,  and  the  Popes  Benedict  XIV.,  Clement 
XIV.,  and  Pius  VI.  were  all  disposed  to  be  pater 
nally  beneficent  to  their  peoples,  who  at  least  had 
repose  under  them,  and  in  this  period  gave  such 
names  to  science  as  those  of  Galvani  and  Volta, 
to  humanity  that  of  Beccaria,  to  letters  those 
of  Alfieri,  Filicaja,  Goldoni,  Parini,  and  many 
others. 

But  in  spite  of  the  literary  and  scientific  activity 
of  the  period,  Italian  society  was  never  quite  so  fan 
tastically  immoral  as  in  this  long  peace,  which  was 
broken  only  by  the  invasions  of  the  French  repub- 


26  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

lie.  A  wide-spread  sentimentality,  curiously  mixed 
of  love  and  letters,  enveloped  the  peninsula.  Com 
merce,  politics,  all  the  business  of  life,  went  on  as 
usual  under  the  roseate  veil  which  gives  its  hue  to 
the  social  history  of  the  time ;  but  the  idea  which 
remains  in  the  mind  is  one  of  a  tranquillity  in 
which  every  person  of  breeding  devoted  himself  to 
the  cult  of  some  muse  or  other,  and  established 
himself  as  the  conventional  admirer  of  his  neigh 
bor's  wife.  The  great  Academy  of  Arcadia,  founded 
to  restore  good  taste  in  poetry,  prescribed  condi 
tions  by  which  everybody,  of  whatever  age  or  sex, 
F  could  become  a  poetaster,  and  good  society  expected 
every  gentleman  and  lady  to  be  in  love.  The  Arca 
dia  still  exists,  but  that  gallant  society  hardly  sur 
vived  the  eighteenth  century.  Perhaps  the  greatest 
wonder  about  it  is  that  it  could  have  lasted  so  long 
as  it  did.  Its  end  was  certainly  not  delayed  for 
want  of  satirists  who  perceived  its  folly  and  pur 
sued  it  with  scorn.  But  this  again  only  brings  one 
doubt,  often  felt,  whether  satire  ever  accomplished 
anything  beyond  a  lively  portraiture  of  conditions 
it  proposed  to  reform. 

It  is  the  opinion  of  some  Italian  critics  that 
Italian  demoralization  began  with  the  reaction 
against  Luther,  when  the  Jesuits  rose  to  supreme 
power  in  the  Church  and  gathered  the  whole  educa 
tion  of  the  young  into  the  hands  of  the  priests. 
Cesare  Cantu,  whose  book  on  Parini  ed  il  suo  Se- 
colo  may  be  read  with  pleasure  and  instruction  by 
such  as  like  to  know  more  fully  the  time  of  which 
I  speak,  was  of  this  mind  ;  he  became  before  his 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  27 

death  a  leader  of  the  clerical  party  in  Italy,  and 
may  be  supposed  to  be  without  unfriendly  preju 
dice.  He  alleges  that  the  priestly  education  made 
the  Italians  literati  rather  than  citizens  ;  Latinists, 
poets,  instead  of  good  magistrates,  workers,  fathers 
of  families;  it  cultivated  the  memory  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  judgment,  the  fancy  at  the  cost  of  the 
reason,  and  made  them  selfish,  polished,  false ;  it 
left  a  boy  "  apathetic,  irresolute,  thoughtless,  pusil 
lanimous  ;  he  nattered  his  superiors  and  hated 
his  fellows,  in  each  of  whom  he  dreaded  a  spy." 
He  knew  the  beautiful  and  loved  the  grandiose ; 
his  pride  of  family  and  ancestry  was  inordinately 
pampered.  What  other  training  he  had  was  in  the 
graces  and  accomplishments ;  he  was  thoroughly 
instructed  in  so  much  of  warlike  exercise  as  ena 
bled  him  to  handle  a  rapier  perfectly  and  to  con 
duct  or  fight  a  duel  with  punctilio. 

But  he  was  no  warrior;  his  career  was  peace. 
The  old  medieval  Italians  who  had  combated  like 
lions  against  the  French  and  Germans  and  against 
each  other,  when  resting  from  the  labors  and  the 
high  conceptions  which  have  left  us  the  chief 
sculptures  and  architecture  of  the  Peninsula,  were 
dead ;  and  their  posterity  had  almost  ceased  to 
know  war.  Italy  had  indeed  still  remained  a  bat 
tle-ground,  but  not  for  Italian  quarrels  nor  for 
Italian  swords;  the  powers  which,  like  Venice, 
could  afford  to  have  quarrels  of  their  own,  mostly 
hired  other  people  to  fight  them  out.  All  the 
independent  states  of  the  Peninsula  had  armies,  but 
armies  that  did  nothing ;  in  Lombardy,  neither 


28  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Frenchman,  Spaniard,  nor  Austrian  had  been  able 
to  recruit  or  draft  soldiers ;  the  flight  of  young 
men  from  the  conscription  depopulated  the  prov 
ince,  until  at  last  Francis  II.  declared  it  exempt 
from  military  service ;  Piedmont,  the  Macedon,  the 
Boeotia  of  that  Greece,  alone  remained  warlike,  and 
Piedmont  was  alone  able,  when  the  hour  came,  to 
show  Italy  how  to  do  for  herself. 

Yet,  except  in  the  maritime  republics,  the  army, 
idle  and  un  warlike  as  it  was  in  most  cases,  con 
tinued  to  be  one  of  the  three  careers  open  to  the 
younger  sons  of  good  family ;  the  civil .^service  and 
the  Church  were  the  other  two.  In  G-enoa,  nobles 
had  engaged  in  commerce  with  equal  honor  and 
profit  j  nearly  every  argosy  that  sailed  to  or  from 
the  port  of  Venice  belonged  to  some  lordly  specu 
lator  5  but  in  Milan  a  noble  who  descended  to  trade 
lost  his  nobility,  by  a  law  not  abrogated  till  the 
time  of  Charles  IV.  The  nobles  had  therefore 
nothing  to  do.  They  could  not  go  into  business ; 
if  they  entered  the  army  it  was  not  to  fight ;  the 
civil  service  was  of  course  actually  performed  by 
subordinates ;  there  were  not  cures  for  half  the 
priests,  and  there  grew  up  that  odd,  polite  rabble 
of  atibati,  like  our  good  Frugoni,  priests  without 
cures,  sometimes  attached  to  noble  families  as 
chaplains,  sometimes  devoting  themselves  to  liter 
ature  or  science,  sometimes  leading  lives  of  mere 
leisure  and  fashion  ;  they  were  mostly  of  plebeian 
origin  when  they  did  anything  at  all  besides  pay 
court  to  the  ladies. 

In  Milan  the  nobles  were  exempt  from  many 
taxes  paid  by  the  plebeians  ;  they  had  separate 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  29 

courts  of  law,  with  judges  of  their  own  order,  be 
fore  whom  a  plebeian  plaintiff  appeared  with  what 
hope  of  justice  can  be  imagined.  Yet  they  were 
not  oppressive ;  they  were  at  worst  only  insolent 
to  their  inferiors,  and  they  commonly  used  them 
with  the  gentleness  which  an  Italian  can  hardly 
fail  in.  There  were  many  ties  of  kindness  between 
the  classes,  the  memory  of  favors  and  services  be 
tween  master  and  servant,  landlord  and  tenant,  in 
relations  which  then  lasted  a  life-time,  and  even 
for  generations.  In  Venice,  where  it  was  one  of 
the  high  privileges  of  the  patrician  to  spit  from  his 
box  at  the  theater  upon  the  heads  of  the  people  in 
the  pit,  the  familiar  bond  of  patron  and  client  so 
endeared  the  old  republican  nobles  to  the  populace 
that  the  Venetian  poor  of  this  day,  who  know  them 
only  by  tradition,  still  lament  them.  But,  on  the 
whole,  men  have  found  it  at  Venice,  as  elsewhere, 
better  not  to  be  spit  upon,  even  by  an  affectionate 
nobility. 

The  patricians  were  luxurious  everywhere.  In 
Rome  they  built  splendid  palaces,  in  Milan  they 
gave  gorgeous  dinners.  Goldoni,  in  his  charming 
memoirs,  tells  us  that  the  Milanese  of  his  time 
never  met  anywhere  without  talking  of  eating,  and 
they  did  eat  upon  all  possible  occasions,  public, 
domestic,  and  religious;  throughout  Italy  they 
have  yet  the  nickname  of  lupi  lombardi  (Lombard 
wolves)  which  their  good  appetites  won  them.  The 
nobles  of  that  gay  old  Milan  were  very  hospitable, 
easy  of  access  to  persons  of  the  proper  number  of 
descents,  and  full  of  invitations  for  the  stranger. 
A  French  writer  found  their  cooking  delicate  and 


30  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

estimable  as  that  of  his  own  nation ;  but  he  adds 
that  many  of  these  friendly,  well-dining  aristocrats 
had  not  good  ton.  One  can  think  of  them  at  our 
distance  of  time  and  place  with  a  kindness  which 
Italian  critics,  especially  those  of  the  bitter  period 
of  struggle  about  the  middle  of  this  century,  do 
not  affect.  Emiliani-Giudici,  for  example,  does 
not,  when  he  calls  them  and  their  order  through 
out  Italy  an  aristocratic  leprosy.  He  assures  us 
that  at  the  time  of  that  long  peace  "  the  moral 
degradation  of  what  the  French  call  the  great 
world  was  the  inveterate  habit  of  centuries ;  the 
nobles  wallowed  in  their  filth  untouched  by  re 
morse  " ;  and  he  speaks  of  them  as  "  gilded  swine, 
vain  of  the  glories  of  their  blazons,  which  they 
dragged  through  the  mire  of  their  vices." 


n 


THIS  is  when  he  is  about  to  consider  a  poem 
in  which  the  Lombard  nobility  are  satirized  — 
if  it  was  satire  to  paint  them  to  the  life.  He 
says  that  he  would  be  at  a  loss  what  passages  to 
quote  from  it,  but  fortunately  <kan  unanimous 
posterity  has  done  Parini  due  honor ";  and  he  sup 
poses  "  now  there  is  no  man,  of  whatever  sect  or 
opinion,  but  has  read  his  immortal  poem,  and  has 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  31 

its  finest  scenes  by  heart."  It  is  this  fact  which 
embarrasses  me,  however,  for  how  am  I  to  rehabil 
itate  a  certain  obsolete  characteristic  figure  with 
out  quoting  from  Parini,  and  constantly  wearying 
people  with  what  they  know  already  so  well? 
The  gentle  reader,  familiar  with  Parini's  immortal 
poem 

The  Gentle  Reader. —  His  immortal  poem  °?  What 
is  his  immortal  poem!  I  never  heard  even  the 
name  of  it ! 

Is  it  possible  ?  But  you,  fair  reader,  who  have 
its  finest  scenes  by  heart 

The  Fair  Reader. —  Yes,  certainly;  of  course. 
But  one  reads  so  many  things.  I  don't  believe  I 

half  remember  those  striking  passages  of what 

is  the  poem  ?  And  who  did  you  say  the  author  was  ? 

Oh,  madam  !  And  is  this  undying  fame  ?  Is 
this  the  immortality  for  which  we  waste  our  time  ? 
Is  this  the  remembrance  for  which  the  essayist 
sicklies  his  visage  over  with  the  pale  cast  of 
thought  ?  Why,  at  this  rate,  even  those  whose 
books  are  favorably  noticed  by  the  newspapers 
will  be  forgotten  in  a  thousand  years.  But  it  is  at 
least  consoling  to  know  that  you  have  merely  for 
gotten  Parini's  poems,  the  subject  of  which  you 
will  at  once  recollect  when  I  remind  you  that  it  is 
called  The  Day,  and  celebrates  The  Morning,  The 
Noon,  The  Evening,  and  The  Night  of  a  gentleman 
of  fashion  as  Milan  knew  him  for  fifty  years  in  the 
last  century. 

This  gentleman,  whatever  his  nominal  business 
in  the  world  might  be,  was  first  and  above  all  a  cav- 


32  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

aliere  servente,  and  the  cavaliere  servente  was  the 
invention,  it  is  said,  of  Genoese  husbands  who  had 
not  the  leisure  to  attend  their  wives  to  the  theater, 
the  promenade,  the  card-table,  the  conversazione, 
and  so  installed  their  nearest  idle  friends  perma 
nently  in  the  office.  The  arrangement  was  found 
so  convenient  that  the  cavaliere  servente  presently 
spread  throughout  Italy;  no  lady  of  fashion  was 
thought  properly  appointed  without  one  ;  and  the 
office  was  now  no  longer  reserved  to  bachelors  ;  it 
was  not  at  all  good  form  for  husband  and  wife  to 
love  each  other,  and  the  husband  became  the  cava 
lier  of  some  other  lady,  and  the  whole  fine  world  was 
thus  united,  by  a  usage  of  which  it  is  very  hard  to 
know  just  how  far  it  was  wicked  and  how  far  it 
was  only  foolish ;  perhaps  it  is  safest  to  say  that  at 
the  best  it  was  apt  to  be  somewhat  of  the  one  and 
always  a  great  deal  of  the  other.  In  the  good  soci 
ety  of  that  day,  marriage  meant  a  settlement  in  life 
for  the  girl  who  had  escaped  her  sister's  fate  of  a 
sometimes  forced  religious  vocation.  But  it  did 
not  matter  so  much  about  the  husband  if  the  mar 
riage  contract  stipulated  that  she  should  have  her 
cavaliere  servente,  and,  as  sometimes  happened, 
specified  him  by  name.  With  her  husband  there 
was  a  union  of  fortunes,  with  the  expectation  of 
heirs  ;  the  companionship,  the  confidence,  the  faith, 
was  with  the  cavalier ;  there  could  be  no  domes 
ticity,  no  family  life  with  either.  The  cavaliere 
servente  went  with  his  lady  to  church,  where  he 
dipped  his  finger  in  the  holy- water  and  offered  it 
her  to  moisten  her  own  finger  at ;  and  he  held  her 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  33 

prayer-book  for  her  when  she  rose  from  her  knees 
and  bowed  to  the  high  altar.  In  fact,  his  place 
seems  to  have  been  as  fully  acknowledged  and 
honored,  if  not  by  the  Church,  then  by  all  the  other 
competent  authorities,  as  that  of  the  husband. 
Like  other  things,  his  relation  to  his  lady  was  sub 
ject  to  complication  and  abuse  ;  no  doubt,  ladies  of 
fickle  minds  changed  their  cavaliers  rather  often  ; 
and  in  those  days  following  the  disorder  of  the 
French  invasions,  the  relation  suffered  deplorable 
exaggerations  and  perversions.  But  when  Giuseppe 
Parini  so  minutely  and  graphically  depicted  the 
day  of  a*  noble  Lombard  youth,  the  cavaliere  ser- 
vente  was  in  his  most  prosperous  and  illustrious 
state;  and  some  who  have  studied  Italian  social 
conditions  in  the  past  bid  us  not  too  virtuously 
condemn  him,  since,  preposterous  as  he  was,  his 
existence  was  an  amelioration  of  disorders  at  which 
we  shall  find  it  better  not  even  to  look  askance. 

Parini's  poem  is  written  in  the  form  of  instruc 
tions  to  the  hero  for  the  politest  disposal  of  his 
time ;  and  in  a  strain  of  polished  irony  allots  the 
follies  of  his  day  to  their  proper  hours.  The  poet's 
apparent  seriousness  never  fails  him,  but  he  does 
not  suffer  his  irony  to  become  a  burden  to  the 
reader,  relieving  it  constantly  with  pictures,  epi^ 
sodes,  and  excursions,  and  now  and  then  breaking 
into  a  strain  of  solemn  poetry  which  is  fine  enough. 
The  work  will  suggest  to  the  English  reader  the 
light  mockery  of  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  and  in 
less  degree  some  qualities  of  Gray's  "  Trivia  "  ;  but 

in  form  and  manner  it  is  more  like  Phillip s's  "  Splen- 

2* 


34  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

did  Shilling  "  than  either  of  these ;  and  yet  it  is  not 
at  all  like  the  last  in  being  a  mere  burlesque  of  the 
epic  style.  These  resemblances  have  been  noted 
by  Italian  critics,  who  find  them  as  unsatisfactory 
as  myself ;  but  they  will  serve  to  make  the  extracts 
I  am  to  give  a  little  more  intelligible  to  the  reader 
who  does  not  recur  to  the  whole  poem.  Parini 
was  not  one  to  break  a  butterfly  upon  a  wheel  ;  he 
felt  the  fatuity  of  heavily  moralizing  upon  his 
material ;  the  only  way  was  to  treat  it  with  affected 
gravity,  and  to  use  his  hero  with  the  respect  which 
best  mocks  absurdity.  One  of  his  arts  is  to  con 
trast  the  deeds  of  his  hero  with  those  of-  his  fore 
fathers,  of  which  he  is  so  proud, — of  course  the 
contrast  is  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  forefathers, — 
and  in  these  allusions  to  the  past  glories  of  Italy  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  modern  patriotic  poetry  which 
has  done  so  much  to  make  Italy  begins  for  the  first 
time  to  feel  its  wings. 

Parini  was  in  all  things  a  very  stanch,  brave,  and 
original  spirit,  and  if  he  was  of  any  school,  it  was 
that  of  the  Venetian,  Gasparo  Gozzi,  who  wrote 
pungent  and  amusing  social  satires  in  blank  verse, 
and  published  at  Venice  an  essay-paper,  like  the 
"  Spectator,"  the  name  of  which  he  turned  into 
I'Osservatore.  It  dealt,  like  the  "  Spectator"  and 
all  that  race  of  journals,  with  questions  of  letters 
and  manners,  and  was  long  honored,  like  the 
"  Spectator/7  as  a  model  of  prose.  With  an  appar 
ent  prevalence  of  French  taste,  there  was  in  fact 
much  study  by  Italian  authors  of  English  litera 
ture  at  this  time,  which  was  encouraged  by  Dr. 
-  Johnson's  friend,  Baretti,  the  author  of  the  famous 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  35 

Frusta  Letteraria  (Literary  Scourge),  which  drew 
blood  from  so  many  authorlings,  now  bloodless  ;  it 
was  wielded  with  more  severity  than  wisdom,  and 
fell  pretty  indiscriminately  upon  the  bad  and  the 
good.  It  scourged  among  others  Goldoni,  the 
greatest  master  of  the  comic  art  then  living,  but 
it  spared  our  Parini,  the  first  part  of  whose  poem 
Baretti  salutes  with  many  kindly  phrases,  though 
he  cannot  help  advising  him  to  turn  the  poem  into 
rhyme.  But  when  did  a  critic  ever  know  less  than 
a  poet  about  a  poet's  business  ? 


ill 


THE  first  part  of  Parini's  Day  is  Morning,  that 
mature  hour  at  which  the  hero  awakes  from  the 
glories  and  fatigues  of  the  past  night.  His  valet 
appears,  and  throwing  open  the  shutters  asks 
whether  he  will  have  coffee  or  chocolate  in  bed,  and 
when  he  has  broken  his  fast  and  risen,  the  business 
of  the  day  begins.  The  earliest  comer  is  perhaps 
the  dancing-master,  whose  elegant  presence  we 
must  not  deny  ourselves  : 

He,  entering,  stops 
Erect  upon  the  threshold,  elevating 
Both  shoulders ;  then  contracting  like  a  tortoise 
His  neck  a  little,  at  the  same  time  drops 
Slightly  his  chin,  and,  with  the  extremest  tip 
Of  his  plumed  hat,  lightly  touches  his  lips. 


36  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

In  their  order  come  the  singing-master  and  the 
master  of  the  violin,  and,  with  more  impressive- 
ness  than  the  rest,  the  teacher  of  French,  whose 
advent  hushes  all  Italian  sounds,  and  who  is  to 
instruct  the  hero  to  forget  his  plebeian  native 
tongue.  He  is  to  send  meanwhile  to  ask  how  the 
lady  he  serves  has  passed  the  night,  and  attending 
her  response  he  may  read  Voltaire  in  a  sumptuous 
Dutch  or  French  binding;  or  he  may  amuse  himself 
with  a  French  romance  j  or  it  may  happen  that  the 
artist  whom  he  has  engaged  to  paint  the  miniature 
of  his  lady  (to  be  placed  in  the  same  jeweled  case 
with  his  own)  shall  bring  his  work  at  this  hour  for 
criticism.  Then  the  valets  robe  him  from  head  to 
foot  in  readiness  for  the  hair-dresser  and  the  bar 
ber,  whose  work  is  completed  with  the  powdering 
of  his  hair. 

At  last  the  labor  of  the  learned  comb 
Is  finished,  and  the  elegant  artist  strews 
With  lightly  shaken  hand  a  powdery  mist 
To  whiten  ere  their  time  thy  youthful  locks. 

Now  take  heart, 

And  in  the  bosom  of  that  whirling  cloud 
Plunge  fearlessly.     0  brave !  0  mighty !    Thus 
Appeared  thine  ancestor  through  smoke  and  fire 
Of  battle,  when  his  country's  trembling  gods 
His  sword  avenged,  and  shattered  the  fierce  foe 
And  put  to  flight.     But  he,  his  visage  stained 
With  dust  and  smoke,  and  smirched  with  gore  and 

sweat, 

His  hair  torn  and  tossed  wild,  came  from  the  strife 
A  terrible  vision,  even  to  compatriots 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  37 

His  hand  had  rescued;  milder  thou  by  far, 
And  fairer  to  behold,  in  white  array 
Shalt  issue  presently  to  bless  the  eyes 
Of  thy  fond  country,  which  the  mighty  arm 
Of  thy  forefather  and  thy  heavenly  smile 
Equally  keep  content  and  prosperous. 

When  the  "hero  is  finally  dressed  for  the  visit  to 
his  lady,  it  is  in  this  splendid  figure : 

Let  purple  gaiters  clasp  thine  ankles  fine 

In  noble  leather,  that  no  dust  or  mire 

Blemish  thy  foot;  down  from  thy  shoulders  flow 

Loosely  a  tunic  fair,  thy  shapely  arms 

Cased  in  its  closely-fitting  sleeves,  whose  borders 

Of  crimson  or  of  azure  velvet  let 

The  heliotrope's  color  tinge.     Thy  slender  throat 

Encircle  with  a  soft  and  gauzy  band. 

Thy  watch  already 

Bids  thee  make  haste  to  go.     0  me,  how  fair 
The  arsenal  of  tiny  charms  that  hang 
With  a  harmonious  tinkling  from  its  chain ! 
What  hangs  not  there  of  fairy  carriages 
And  fairy  steeds  so  marvelously  feigned 
In  gold  that  every  charger  seems  alive? 

This  magnificent  swell,  of  the  times  when  swells 
had  the  world  quite  their  own  way,  finds  his  lady 
already  surrounded  with  visitors  when  he  calls  to 
revere  her,  as  he  would  have  said,  and  he  can  there 
fore  make  the  more  effective  arrival.  Entering  her 
presence  he  puts  on  his  very  finest  manner,  which 
I  am  sure  we  might  all  study  to  our  advantage. 

Let  thy  right  hand  be  pressed  against  thy  side 
Beneath  thy  waistcoat,  and  the  other  hand 


38  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Upon  thy  snowy  linen  rest,  and  hide 

Next  to  thy  heart ;  let  the  breast  rise  sublime, 

The  shoulders  broaden  both,  and  bend  toward  her 

Thy  pliant  neck;  then  at  the  corners  close 

Thy  lips  a  little,  pointed  in  the  middle 

Somewhat ;  and  from  thy  mouth  thus  set  exhale 

A  murmur  inaudible.     Meanwhile  her  right 

Let  her  have  given,  and  now  softly  drop 

On  the  warm  ivory  a  double  kiss. 

Seat  thyself  then,  and  with  one  hand  draw  closer 

Thy  chair  to  hers,  while  every  tongue  is  stilled. 

Thou  only,  bending  slightly  over,  with  her 

Exchange  in  whisper  secret  nothings,  which 

Ye  both  accompany  with  mutual  smiles 

And  covert  glances  that  betray,  or  seem 

At  least,  your  tender  passion  to  betray. 


It  must  have  been  mighty  pretty,  as  Master 
Pepys  says,  to  look  at  the  life  from  which  this  scene 
was  painted,  for  many  a  dandy  of  either  sex  doubt 
less  sat  for  it.  The  scene  was  sometimes  height 
ened  by  the  different  humor  in  which  the  lady  and 
the  cavalier  received  each  other,  as  for  instance 
when  they  met  with  reproaches  and  offered  the 
spectacle  of  a  lover's  quarrel  to  the  company.  In 
either  case,  it  is  for  the  hero  to  lead  the  lady  out  to 
dinner. 

With  a  bound 

Eise  to  thy  feet,  signor,  and  give  thy  hand 
Unto  thy  lady,  whom,  tenderly  drooping, 
Support  thou  with  thy  strength,  and  to  the  table 
Accompany,  while  the  guests  come  after  you. 
And  last  of  all  the  husband  follows.   .   . 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  39 

Or  rather  — 

If  to  the  husband  still 
The  vestige  of  a  generous  soul  remain, 
Let  Tiirn  frequent  another  board;  beside 
Another  lady  sit,  whose  husband  dines 
Yet  somewhere  else  beside  another  lady, 
Whose  spouse  is  likewise  absent ;  and  so  add 
New  links  unto  the  chain  immense,  wherewith 
Love,  alternating,  binds  the  whole  wide  world. 

Behold  thy  lady  seated  at  the  board : 
Relinquish  now  her  hand,  and  while  the  servant 
Places  the  chair  that  not  too  far  she  sit, 
And  not  so  near  that  her  soft  bosom  press 
Too  close  against  the  table,  with  a  spring 
Stoop  thou  and  gather  round  thy  lady's  feet 
The  wandering  volume  of  her  robe.     Beside  her 
Then  sit  thee  down;  for  the  true  cavalier 
Is  not  permitted  to  forsake  the  side 
Of  her  he  serves,  except  there  should  arise 
Some  strange  occasion  warranting  the  use 
Of  so  great  freedom. 

When  one  reads  of  these  springs  and  little  hops, 
which  were  once  so  elegant,  it  is  almost  with  a  sigh 
for  a  world  which  no  longer  springs  or  hops  in  the 
service  of  beauty,  or  even  dreams  of  doing  it.  But 
a  passage  which  will  touch  the  sympathetic  with  a 
still  keener  sense  of  loss  is  one  which  hints  how 
lovely  a  lady  looked  when  carving,  as  she  then 
sometimes  did : 

Swiftly  now  the  blade, 

That  sharp  and  polished  at  thy  right  hand  lies, 
Draw  naked  forth,  and  like  the  blade  of  Mars 


40  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Flash  it  upon  the  eyes  of  all.     The  point 
Press  'twixt  thy  finger-tips,  and  bowing  low 
Offer  the  handle  to  her.    Now  are  seen 
The  soft  and  delicate  playing  of  the  muscles 
In  the  white  hand  upon  its  work  intent. 
The  graces  that  around  the  lady  stoop 
Clothe  themselves  in  new  forms,  and  from  her  fin 
gers 

Sportively  flying,  flutter  to  the  tips 
Of  her  unconscious  rosy  knuckles,  thence 
To  dip  into  the  hollows  of  the  dimples 
That  Love  beside  her  knuckles  has  impressed. 

Throughout  the  dinner  it  is  the  part  of  the  well- 
bred  husband  — if  so  ill-bred  as  to  remain  at  all  — 
to  sit  impassive  and  quiescent  while  the  cavalier 
watches  over  the  wife  with  tender  care,  prepares 
her  food,  offers  what  agrees  with  her,  and  for 
bids  what  harms.  He  is  virtually  master  of  the 
house  ;  he  can  order  the  servants  about  ;  if  the 
dinner  is  not  to  his  mind,  it  is  even  his  high  pre 
rogative  to  scold  the  cook. 

The  poet  reports  something  of  the  talk  at  table ; 
and  here  occurs  one  of  the  most  admired  passages 
of  the  poem,  the  light  irony  of  which  it  is  hard  to 
reproduce  in  a  version.  One  of  the  guests,  in  a 
strain  of  affected  sensibility,  has  been  denouncing 
man's  cruelty  to  animals : 

Thus  he  discourses;    and  a  gentle  tear 
Springs,  while  he  speaks,  into  thy  lady's  eyes. 

She  recalls  the  day  — 

Alas,  the  cruel  day  !  —  what  time  her  lap-dog, 
Her  beauteous  lap-dog,  darling  of  the  Graces, 
Sporting  in  youthful  gayety,  impressed 
The  light  mark  of  her  ivory  tooth  upon 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  41 

The  rude  foot  of  a  menial ;    he,  with  bold 
And  sacrilegious  toe,  flung  her  away. 
Over  and  over  thrice  she  rolled,  and  thrice 
Rumpled  her  silken  coat,  and  thrice  inhaled 
With  tender  nostril  the  thick,  choking  dust, 
Then  raised  imploring  cries,  and  "Help,  help,  help!" 
She  seemed  to  call,  while  from  the  gilded  vaults 
Compassionate  Echo  answered  her  again, 
And  from  their  cloistral  basements  in  dismay 
The  servants  rushed,  and  from  the  upper  rooms 
The  pallid  maidens  trembling  flew;    all  came. 
Thy  lady's  face  was  with  reviving  essence 
Sprinkled,  and  she  awakened  from  her  swoon. 
Anger  and  grief  convulsed  her  still;   she  cast 
A  lightning  glance  upon  the  guilty  menial, 
And  thrice  with  languid  voice  she  called  her  pet, 
Who  rushed  to  her  embrace  and  seemed  to  invoke 
Vengeance  with  her  shrill  tenor.    And  revenge 
Thou  hadst,  fair  poodle,  darling  of  the  Graces. 
The  guilty  menial  trembled,  and  with  eyes 
Downcast  received  his  doom.     Naught  him  availed 
His  twenty  years'  desert;  naught  him  availed 
His  zeal  in  secret  services ;  for  him 
In  vain  were  prayer  and  promise ;  forth  he  went, 
Spoiled  of  the  livery  that  till  now  had  made  him 
Enviable  with  the  vulgar.     And  in  vain 
He  hoped  another  lord;  the  tender  dames 
Were   horror-struck  at  his  atrocious  crime, 
And  loathed  the  author.    The  false  wretch  succumbed 
With  all  his  squalid  brood,  and  in  the  streets 
With  his  lean  wife  in  tatters  at  his  side 
Vainly  lamented  to  the  passer-by. 

It  would  be  quite  out  of  taste  for  the  lover  to  sit 
as  apathetic  as  the  husband  in  the  presence  of  his 
lady's  guests,  and  he  is  to  mingle  gracefully  in  the 


42  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

talk  from  time  to  time,  turning  it  to  such  topics  as 
may  best  serve  to  exploit  his  own  accomplishments. 
As  a  man  of  the  first  fashion,  he  must  be  in  the 
habit  of  seeming  to  have  read  Horace  a  little,  and 
it  will  be  a  pretty  effect  to  quote  him  now ;  one 
may  also  show  one's  acquaintance  with  the  new 
French  philosophy,  and  approve  its  skepticism, 
while  keeping  clear  of  its  pernicious  doctrines, 
which  insidiously  teach  — 
j 
That  every  mortal  is  his  fellow's  peerj 

That  not  less  dear  to  Nature  and  to  God 

Is  he  who  drives  thy  carriage,  or  who  guides 

The  plow  across  thy  field,  than  thine  own  self. 

But  at  last  the  lady  makes  a  signal  to  the  cavalier 
that  it  is  time  to  rise  from  the  table  : 

Spring  to  thy  feet 

The  first  of  all,  and  drawing  near  thy  lady 
Remove  her  chair  and  offer  her  thy  hand, 
And  lead  her  to  the  other  rooms,  nor  suffer  longer 
That  the  stale  reek  of  viands  shall  offend 
Her  delicate  sense.     Thee  with  the  rest  invites 
The  grateful  odor  of  the  coffee,  where 
It  smokes  upon  a  smaller  table  hid 
And  graced  with  Indian  webs.     The  redolent  gums 
That  meanwhile  burn  sweeten  and  purify 
The  heavy  atmosphere,  and  banish  thence 
All  lingering  traces  of  the  feast.  —  Ye  sick 
I  And  poor,  whom  misery  or  whom  hope  perchance 
Has  guided  in  the  noonday  to  these  doors, 
Tumultuous,  naked,  and  unsightly  throng, 
With  mutilated  limbs  and  squalid  faces, 
In  litters  and  on  crutches,  from  afar 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  43 

Comfort  yourselves,  and  with  expanded  nostrils 

Drink  in  the  nectar  of  the  feast  divine 

That  favorable  zephyrs  waft  to  you ; 

But  do  not  dare  besiege  these  noble  precincts, 

Importunately  offering  her  that  reigns 

Within  your  loathsome  spectacle  of  woe! 

—  And  now,  sir,  'tis  your  office  to  prepare 

The  tiny  cup  that  then  shall  minister, 

Slow  sipped,  its  liquor  to  thy  lady's  lips ; 

And  now  bethink  thee  whether  she  prefer 

The  boiling  beverage  much  or  little  tempered 

With  sweet;  or  if  perchance  she  like  it  best 

As  doth  the  barbarous  spouse,  then,  when  she  sits 

Upon  brocades  of  Persia,  with  light  fingers 

The  bearded  visage  of  her  lord  caressing. 

With  the  dinner  the  second  part  of  the  poem,  en 
titled  The  Noon,  concludes,  and  The  Afternoon  be 
gins  with  the  visit  which  the  hero  and  his  lady  pay 
to  one  of  her  friends.  He  has  already  thought  with 
which  of  the  husband's  horses  they  shall  drive  out ; 
he  has  suggested  which  dress  his  lady  shall  wear 
and  which  fan  she  shall  carry ;  he  has  witnessed 
the  agonizing  scene  of  her  parting  with  her  lap- 
dog, —  her  children  are  at  nurse  and  never  in 
trude, —  and  they  have  arrived  in  the  palace  of  the 
lady  on  whom  they  are  to  call : 

And  now  the  ardent  friends  to  greet  each  other 
Impatient  fly,  and  pressing  breast  to  breast 
They  tenderly  embrace,  and  with  alternate  kisses 
Their   cheeks  resound ;    then,  clasping  hands,  they 

drop 
Plummet-like  down  upon  the  sofa,  both 


44  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Together.     Seated  thus,  one  flings  a  phrase, 

Subtle  and  pointed,  at  the  other's  heart, 

Hinting  of  certain  things  that  rumor  tells, 

And  in  her  turn  the  other  with  a  sting 

Assails.     The  lovely  face  of  one  is  flushed 

With  beauteous  anger,  and  the  other  bites 

Her  pretty  lips  a  little ;  evermore 

At  every  instant  waxes  violent 

The  anxious  agitation  of  the  fans. 

So,  in  the  age  of  Turpin,  if  two  knights 

Illustrious  and  well  cased  in  mail  encountered 

Upon  the  way,  each  cavalier  aspired 

To  prove  the  valor  of  the  other  in  arms, 

And,  after  greetings  courteous  and  fair, 

They  lowered  their  lances  and  their  chargers  dashed 

Ferociously  together  j  then  they  flung 

The  splintered  fragments  of  their  spears  aside, 

And,  fired  with  generous  fury,  drew  their  huge, 

Two-handed  swords  and  rushed  upon  each  other! 

But  in  the  distance  through  a  savage  wood 

The  clamor  of  a  messenger  is  heard, 

Who  comes  full  gallop  to  recall  the  one 

Unto  King  Charles,  and  th'  other  to  the  camp 

Of  the  young  Agramante.     Dare  thou,  too, 

Dare  thou,  invincible  youth,  to  expose  the  curls 

And  the  toupet,  so  exquisitely  dressed 

This  very  morning,  to  the  deadly  shock 

Of  the  infuriate  fans ;  to  new  emprises 

Thy  fair  invite,  and  thus  the  extreme  effects 

Of  their  periculous  enmity  suspend. 

Is  not  this  most  charmingly  done  ?  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  warlike  interpretation  of  the  scene  is  de 
lightful  ;  and  those  embattled  fans — their  perfumed 
breath  comes  down  a  hundred  years  in  the  verse  ! 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  45 

The  cavalier  and  his  lady  now  betake  them  to  the 
promenade,  where  all  the  fair  world  of  Milan  is 
walking  or  driving,  with  a  punctual  regularity 
which  still  distinguishes  Italians  in  their  walks  and 
drives.  The  place  is  full  of  their  common  acquaint 
ance,  and  the  carriages  are  at  rest  for  the  exchange 
of  greetings  and  gossip,  in  which  the  hero  must 
take  his  part.  All  this  is  described  in  the  same 
note  of  ironical  seriousness  as  the  rest  of  the  poem, 
and  The  Afternoon  closes  with  a  strain  of  stately 
and  grave  poetry  which  admirably  heightens  the 
desired  effect : 

/xRt  &• ' 

Behold  the  servants 

Ready  for  thy  descent;  and  now  skip  downNk 
And  smooth  the  creases  from  thy  coat,  and  order 
The  laces  on  thy  breast;  a  little  stoop, 
And  on  thy  snowy  stockings  bend  a*  glance, 
And  then  erect  thyself  and  strut  away 
Either  to  pace  the  promenade  alone, — 
'T  is  thine,  if  't  please  thee  walk ;  or  thou  mayst  draw 
Anigh  the  carriages  of  other  dames. 
Thou  clamberest  up,  and  thrustest  in  thy  head 
And  arms  and  shoulders,  half  thyself  within 
The  carriage  door.     There  let  thy  laughter  rise 
So  loud  that  from  afar  thy  lady  hear, 
And  rage  to  hear,  and  interrupt  the  wit 
Of  other  heroes  who  had  swiftly  run 
Amid  the  dusk  to  keep  her  company 
While  thou  wast  absent.     0  ye  powers  supreme, 
Suspend  the  night,  and  let  the  noble  deeds 
Of  my  young  hero  shine  upon  the  world 
In  the  clear  day !    Nay,  night  must  follow  still 
Her  own  inviolable  laws,  and  droop 


46  MODERN   ITALIAN    POETS. 

With  silent  shades  over  one  half  the  globe ; 

And  slowly  moving  on  her  dewy  feet, 

She  blends  the  varied  colors  infinite, 

And  with  the  border  of  her  mighty  garments 

Blots  everything ;  the  sister  she  of  Death 

Leaves  but  one  aspect  indistinct,  one  guise 

To  fields  and  trees,  to  flowers,  to  birds  and  beasts, 

And  to  the  great  and  to  the  lowly  born, 

Confounding  with  the  painted  cheek  of  beauty 

The  haggard  face  of  want,  and  gold  with  tatters. 

Nor  me  will  the  blind  air  permit  to  see 

Which  carriages  depart,  and  which  remain, 

Secret  amidst  the  shades;   but  from  my  hand 

The  pencil  caught,  my  hero  is  involved 

Within  the  tenebrous  and  humid  veil. 

The  concluding  section  of  the  poem,  by  chance 
or  by  wise  design  of  the  author,  remains  a  frag 
ment.  In  this  he  follows  his  hero  from  the  prom 
enade  to  the  evening  party,  with  an  account  of 
which  The  Night  is  mainly  occupied,  so  far  as  it 
goes.  There  are  many  lively  pictures  in  it,  with 
light  sketches  of  expression  and  attitude  ;  but  on 
the  whole  it  has  not  so  many  distinctly  quotable 
passages  as  the  other  parts  of  the  poem.  The  per 
functory  devotion  of  the  cavalier  and  the  lady 
continues  throughout,  and  the  same  ironical  rever 
ence  depicts  them  alighting  from  their  carriage, 
arriving  in  the  presence  of  the  hostess,  sharing  in 
the  gossip  of  the  guests,  supping,  and  sitting  down 
at  those  games  of  chance  with  which  every  fash 
ionable  house  was  provided  and  at  which  the  lady 
loses  or  doubles  her  pin-money.  In  Milan  long 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  47 

trains  were  then  the  mode,  and  any  woman  might 
wear  them,  but  only  patricians  were  allowed  to 
have  them  carried  by  servants ;  the  rich  plebeian 
must  drag  her  costly  skirts  in  the  dust ;  and  the 
nobility  of  our  hero's  lady  is  honored  by  the  flun 
keys  who  lift  her  train  as  she  enters  the  house. 
The  hostess,  seated  on  a  sofa,  receives  her  guests 
with  a  few  murmured  greetings,  and  then  abandons 
herself  to  the  arduous  task  of  arranging  the  various 
partners  at  cards.  When  the  cavalier  serves  his 
lady  at  supper,  he  takes  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  and  spreads  it  on  her  lap ;  such  usages  and 
the  differences  of  costume  distinguished  an  evening 
party  at  Milan  then  from  the  like  joy  in  our  time 
and  country. 


IV 


THE  poet  who  sings  this  gay  world  with  such 
mocking  seriousness  was  not  himself  born  to  the 
manner  of  it.  He  was  born  plebeian  in  1729  at 
Bosisio,  near  Lake  Pusiano,  and  his  parents  were 
poor.  He  himself  adds  that  they  were  honest,  but 
the  phrase  has  now  lost  its  freshness.  His  father 
was  a  dealer  in  raw  silk,  and  was  able  to  send  him 
to  school  in  Milan,  where  his  scholarship  was  not 
equal  to  his  early  literary  promise.  At  least  he 
took  no  prizes  ;  but  this  often  happens  with  people 
whose  laurels  come  abundantly  later.  He  was  to 


48  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

enter  the  Church,  and  in  due  time  he  took  orders, 
but  he  did  not  desire  a  cure,  and  he  became,  like  so 
many  other  accomplished  abbati,  a  teacher  in  noble 
families  (the  great  and  saintly  family  Borrorneo 
among  others),  in  whose  houses  and  in  those  he  fre 
quented  with  them  he  saw  the  life  he  paints  in  his 
poem.  His  father  was  now  dead,  and  he  had  already 
supported  himself  and  his  mother  by  copying  law- 
papers;  he  had,  also,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three, 
published  a  small  volume  of  poems,  and  had  been 
elected  a  shepherd  of  Arcadia;  but  in  a  country 
where  one's  copyright  was  good  for  nothing  across 
the  border — scarcely  a  fair  stoned-throw  away 
—  of  one's  own  little  duchy  or  province,  and  the 
printers  everywhere  stole  a  book  as  soon  as  it  was 
worth  stealing,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  made  great 
gains  by  a  volume  of  verses  which,  later  in  life,  he 
repudiated.  Baretti  had  then  returned  from  living 
in  London,  where  he  had  seen  the  prosperity  of 
"the  trade  of  an  author"  in  days  which  we  do  not 
now  think  so  very  prosperous,  and  he  viewed  with 
open  disgust  the  abject  state  of  authorship  in  his 
own  country.  So  there  was  nothing  for  Parini  to 
do  but  to  become  a  maestro  in  casa.  With  the 
Borromei  he  always  remained  friends,  and  in  their 
company  he  went  into  society  a  good  deal.  Emil- 
iani-G-iudici  supposes  that  he  came  to  despise  the 
great  world  with  the  same  scorn  that  shows  in 
his  poem ;  but  probably  he  regarded  it  quite  as 
much  with  the  amused  sense  of  the  artist  as  with 
the  moralist's  indignation;  some  of  his  contem 
poraries  accused  him  of  a  snobbish  fondness  for 


GIUSEPPE    PARINI.  49 

the  great,  but  certainly  he  did  not  flatter  them, 
and  in  one  passage  of  his  poem  he  is  at  the  pains 
to  remind  his  noble  acquaintance  that  not  the 
smallest  drop  of  patrician  blood  is  microscopic 
ally  discoverable  in  his  veins.  His  days  were 
rendered  more  comfortable  when  he  was  appointed 
editor  of  the  government  newspaper, — the  only 
newspaper  in  Milan, —  and  yet  easier  when  he  was 
made  professor  of  eloquence  in  the  Academy  of 
Fine  Arts.  In  this  employment  it  was  his  hard 
duty  to  write  poems  from  time  to  time  in  praise 
of  archdukes  and  emperors ;  but  by  and  by  the 
French  Revolution  arrived  in  Milan,  and  Parini 
was  relieved  of  that  labor.  The  revolution  made  an 
end  of  archdukes  and  emperors,  but  the  liberty 
it  bestowed  was  peculiar,  and  consisted  chiefly 
in  not  allowing  one  to  do  anything  that  one  liked. 
The  altars  were  abased,  and  trees  of  liberty  were 
planted  j  for  making  a  tumult  about  an  outraged 
saint  a  mob  was  severely  handled  by  the  military, 
and  for  "insulting"  a  tree  of  liberty  a  poor  fellow 
at  Como  was  shot.  Parini  was  chosen  one  of  the 
municipal  government,  which,  apparently  popular, 
could  really  do  nothing  but  register  the  decrees  of 
the  military  commandant.  He  proved  so  little  use 
ful  in  this  government  that  he  was  expelled  from  it, 
and,  giving  his  salary  to  his  native  parish,  he  fell 
into  something  like  his  old  poverty.  He  who  had 
laughed  to  scorn  the  insolence  and  folly  of  the 
nobles  could  not  enjoy  the  insolence  and  folly  of 
the  plebeians,  and  he  was  unhappy  in  that  wild  fer 
ment  of  ideas,  hopes,  principles,  sentiments,  which 


50  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Milan  became  in  the  time  of  the  Cisalpine  Repub 
lic.  He  led  a  retired  life,  and  at  last,  in  1799,  hav 
ing  risen  one  day  to  studies  which  he  had  never 
remitted,  he  died  suddenly  in  his  arm-chair. 

Many  stories  are  told  of  his  sayings  and  doings 
in  those  troubled  days  when  he  tried  to  serve  the 
public.  At  the  theater  once  some  one  cried  out, 
"  Long  live  the  republic,  death  to  the  aristocrats  !  " 
"  No,"  shouted  Parini,  who  abhorred  the  abomina 
ble  bloodthirstiness  of  the  liberators,  "long  live 
the  republic,  death  to  nobody!"  They  were  go 
ing  to  take  away  a  crucifix  from  a  room  where  he 
appeared  on  public  business.  "  Very  well,"  he  ob 
served  5  "  where  Citizen  Christ  cannot  stay,  I  have 
nothing  to  do,"  and  went  out.  "  Equality  does  n't 
consist  in  dragging  me  down  to  your  level,"  he  said 
to  one  who  had  impudently  given  him  the  thou, 
"  but  in  raising  you  to  mine,  if  possible.  You  will 
always  be  a  pitiful  creature,  even  though  you  call 
yourself  Citizen ;  and  though  you  call  me  Citi 
zen,  you  can't  help  my  being  the  Abbate  Parini." 
To  another,  who  reproached  him  for  kindness  to 
an  Austrian  prisoner,  he  answered,  "  I  would  do  as 
much  for  a  Turk,  a  Jew,  an  Arab  ;  I  would  do  it 
even  for  you  if  you  were  in  need."  In  his  closing 
years  many  sought  him  for  literary  counsel  ;  those 
for  whom  there  was  hope  he  encouraged ;  those  for 
whom  there  was  none,  he  made  it  a  matter  of  con 
science  not  to  praise.  A  poor  fellow  came  to  repeat 
him  two  sonnets,  in  order  to  be  advised  which  to 
print ;  Parini  heard  the  first,  and,  without  waiting 
further,  besought  him  "  Print  the  other  !  " 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI 

VITTORIO  ALFIERI,  the  Italian  poet  whom  his 
countrymen  would  undoubtedly  name  next  after 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto,  and  Tasso,  and  who,  in 
spite  of  his  limitations,  was  a  man  of  signal  and 
distinct  dramatic  power,  not  surpassed  if  equaled 
since,  is  scarcely  more  than  a  name  to  most  English 
readers.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1749,  at  Asti,  a 
little  city  of  that  Piedmont  where  there  has  always 
been  a  greater  regard  for  feudal  traditions  than  in 
any  other  part  of  Italy ;  and  he  belonged  by  birth 
to  a  nobility  which  is  still  the  proudest  in  Europe. 
"What  a  singular  country  is  ours!"  said  the  Cheva 
lier  Nigra,  one  of  the  first  diplomats  of  our  time, 
who  for  many  years  managed  the  delicate  and  diffi 
cult  relations  of  Italy  with  France  during  the 
second  empire,  but  who  was  the  son  of  an  apothe 
cary.  "  In  Paris  they  admit  me  everywhere  ;  I  am 
asked  to  court  and  petted  as  few  Frenchmen  are ; 
but  here,  in  my  own  city  of  Turin,  it  would  not  be 
possible  for  me  to  be  received  by  the  Marchioness 
Doria ; "  and  if  this  was  true  in  the  afternoon  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  one  easily  fancies  what 
society  must  have  been  at  Turin  in  the  forenoon  of 
the  eighteenth. 


52  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 


IT  was  in  the  order  of  the  things  of  that  day 
and  country  that  Alfieri  should  leave  home  while  a 
child  and  go  to  school  at  the  Academy  of  Turin. 
Here,  as  he  tells  in  that  most  amusing  autobiog 
raphy  of  his,  he  spent  several  years  in  acquiring  a 
profound  ignorance  of  whatever  he  was  meant  to 
learn;  and  he  came  away  a  stranger  not  only  to 
the  humanities,  but  to  any  one  language,  speaking 
a  barbarous  mixture  of  French  and  Piedmontese, 
and  reading  little  or  nothing.  Doubtless  he  does 
not  spare  color  in  this  statement,  but  almost  any 
thing  you  like  could  be  true  of  the  education  of  a 
gentleman  as  a  gentleman  got  it  from  the  Italian 
priests  of  the  last  century.  "  We  translated,"  he 
says,  "the  l Lives  of  Cornelius  Nepos';  but  none  of 
us,  perhaps  not  even  the  masters,  knew  who  these 
men  were  whose  lives  we  translated,  nor  where 
was  their  country,  nor  in  what  times  they  lived, 
nor  under  what  governments,  nor  what  any  govern 
ment  was."  He  learned  Latin  enough  to  turn  Vir 
gil's  "  Greorgics  "  into  his  sort  of  Italian  •  but  when 
he  read  Ariosto  by  stealth,  he  atoned  for  his  trans 
gression  by  failing  to  understand  him.  Yet  Alfieri 
tells  us  that  he  was  one  of  the  first  scholars  of  that 
admirable  academy,  and  he  really  had  some  im 
pulses  even  then  toward  literature  ;  for  he  liked 
reading  Goldoni  and  Metastasio,  though  he  had 
never  heard  of  the  name  of  Tasso.  This  was  whilst 
he  was  still  in  the  primary  classes,  under  strict 
priestly  control  ;  when  he  passed  to  a  more  ad- 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  53 

vanced  grade  and  found  himself  free  to  do  what 
he  liked  in  the  manner  that  pleased  him  best,  in 
common  with  the  young  Russians,  German s,  and 
Englishmen  then  enjoying  the  advantages  of  the 
Academy  of  Turin,  he  says  that  being  grounded  in 
no  study,  directed  by  no  one,  and  not  understand 
ing  any  language  well,  he  did  not  know  what  study 
to  take  up,  or  how  to  study.  "The  reading  of 
many  French  romances/'  he  goes  on,  "  the  constant 
association  with  foreigners,  and  the  want  of  all 
occasion  to  speak  Italian,  or  to  hear  it  spoken, 
drove  from  my  head  that  small  amount  of  wretched 
Tuscan  which  I  had  contrived  to  put  there  in  those 
two  or  three  years  of  burlesque  study  of  the 
humanities  and  asinine  rhetoric.  In  place  of  it," 
he  says,  "  the  French  entered  into  my  empty  brain  "; 
but  he  is  careful  to  disclaim  any  literary  merit  for 
the  French  he  knew,  and  he  afterward  came  to 
hate  it,  with  everything  else  that  was  French,  very 
bitterly. 

It  was  before  this,  a  little,  that  Alfieri  contrived 
his  first  sonnet,  which,  when  he  read  it  to  the  uncle 
with  whom  he  lived,  made  that  old  soldier  laugh 
unmercifully,  so  that  until  his  twenty-fifth  year  the*" 
poet  made  no  further  attempts  in  verse.  When  he 
left  school  he  spent  three  years  in  travel,  after  the 
fashion  of  those  grand-touring  days  when  you  had 
to  be  a  gentleman  of  birth  and  fortune  in  order  to 
travel,  and  when  you  journeyed  by  your  own  con 
veyance  from  capital  to  capital,  with  letters  to  your 
sovereign's  ambassadors  everywhere,  and  spent  your 
money  handsomely  upon  the  dissipations  of  the 


54  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

countries  through  which  you  passed.  Alfieri  is 
constantly  at  the  trouble  to  have  us  know  that 
he  was  a  very  morose  and  ill-conditioned  young 
animal,  and  the  figure  he  makes  as  a  traveler  is  no 
more  amiable  than  edifying.  He  had  a  ruling 
passion  for  horses,  and  then  several  smaller  pas 
sions  quite  as  wasteful  and  idle.  He  was  driven 
from  place  to  place  by  a  demon  of  unrest,  and  was 
mainly  concerned,  after  reaching  a  city,  in  getting 
away  from  it  as  soon  as  he  could.  He  gives  anec 
dotes  enough  in  proof  of  this,  and  he  forgets  nothing 
that  can  enhance  the  surprise  of  his  future  literary 
greatness.  At  the  Ambrosian  Library  in  Milan 
they  showed  him  a  manuscript  of  Petrarch's, 
which,  "like  a  true  barbarian,"  as  he  says,  he  flung 
aside,  declaring  that  he  knew  nothing  about  it, 
having  a  rancor  against  this  Petrarch,  whom  he 
had  once  tried  to  read  and  had  understood  as  little 
as  Ariosto.  At  Rome  the  Sardinian  minister  inno 
cently  affronted  him  by  repeating  some  verses  of 
Marcellus,  which  the  sulky  young  noble  could  not 
comprehend.  In  Ferrara  he  did  not  remember  that 
it  was  the  city  of  that  divine  Ariosto  whose  poem 
was  the  first  that  came  into  his  hands,  and  which  he 
had  now  read  in  part  with  infinite  pleasure.  "  But 
my  poor  intellect,'7  he  says,  "was  then  sleeping 
a  most  sordid  sleep,  and  every  day,  as  far  as  regards 
letters,  rusted  more  and  more.  It  is  true,  however, 
that  with  respect  to  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of 
men  I  constantly  learned  not  a  little,  without  tak 
ing  note  of  it,  so  many  and  diverse  were  the  phases 
of  life  and  manners  that  I  daily  beheld."  At 


VITTORIO    ALFIERT.  55 

Florence  he  visited  the  galleries  and  churches  with 
much  disgust  and  no  feeling  for  the  beautiful, 
especially  in  painting,  his  eyes  being  very  dull  to 
color.  "  If  I  liked  anything  better,  it  was  sculpture 
a  little,  and  architecture  yet  a  little  more  " ;  and  it 
is  interesting  to  note  how  all  his  tragedies  reflect 
these  preferences,  in  their  lack  of  color  and  in  their 
sculpturesque  sharpness  of  outline. 

From  Italy  he  passed  as  restlessly  into  France, 
yet  with  something  of  a  more  definite  intention,  for 
he  meant  to  frequent  the  French  theater.  He  had 
seen  a  company  of  French  players  at  Turin,  and 
had  acquainted  himself  with  the  most  famous 
French  tragedies  and  comedies,  but  with  no  thought 
of  writing  tragedies  of  his  own.  He  felt  no  cre 
ative  impulse,  and  he  liked  the  comedies  best, 
though,  as  he  says,  he  was  by  nature  more  inclined 
to  tears  than  to  laughter.  But  he  does  not  seem  to 
have  enjoyed  the  theater  much  in  Paris,  a  city  for 
which  he  conceived  at  once  the  greatest  dislike,  he 
says,  "  on  account  of  the  squalor  and  barbarity  of 
the  buildings,  the  absurd  and  pitiful  pomp  of  the 
few  houses  that  affected  to  be  palaces,  the  filthi- 
ness  and  gothicism  of  the  churches,  the  vandalic 
structure  of  the  theaters  of  that  time,  and  the  many 
and  many  and  many  disagreeable  objects  that  all 
day  fell  under  my  notice,  and  worst  of  all  the  un 
speakably  misshapen  and  beplastered  faces  of  those 
ugliest  of  women." 

He  had  at  this  time  already  conceived  that 
hatred  of  kings  which  breathes,  or,  I  may  better 
say,  bellows,  from  his  tragedies  j  and  he  was  en- 


56  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

raged  even  beyond  his  habitual  fury  by  his  recep 
tion  at  court,  where  it  was  etiquette  for  Louis  XV. 
to  stare  at  him  from  head  to  foot  and  give  no  sign 
of  having  received  any  impression  whatever. 

In  Holland  he  fell  in  love,  for  the  first  time,  and 
as  was  requisite  in  the  polite  society  of  that  day, 
the  object  of  his  passion  was  another  man's  wife. 
In  England  he  fell  in  love  the  second  time,  and 
as  fashionably  as  before.  The  intrigue  lasted  for 
months  $  in  the  end  it  came  to  a  duel  with  the  lady's 
husband  and  a  great  scandal  in  the  newspapers ; 
but  in  spite  of  these  displeasures,  Alfieri  liked 
every  thing  in  England.  "  The  streets,  the  taverns, 
the  horses,  the  women,  the  universal  prosperity,  the 
life  and  activity  of  that  island,  the  cleanliness  and 
convenience  of  the  houses,  though  extremely  little," 
— as  they  still  strike  every  one  coming  from  Italy, 
— these  and  other  charms  of  "that  fortunate  and 
free  country  "  made  an  impression  upon  him  that 
never  was  effaced.  He  did  not  at  that  time,  he  says, 
"  study  profoundly  the  constitution,  mother  of  so 
much  prosperity,"  but  he  "knew  enough  to  ob 
serve  and  value  its  sublime  effects.77 

Before  his  memorable  sojourn  in  England,  he 
spent  half  a  year  at  Turin  reading  Eousseau, 
among  other  philosophers,  and  Voltaire,  whose 
prose  delighted  and  whose  verse  wearied  him. 
"  But  the  book  of  books  for  me,"  he  says,  "  and  the 
ione  which  that  winter  caused  me  to  pass  hours  of 
v|bliss  and  rapture,  was  Plutarch,  his  Lives  of  the 
truly  great;  and  some  of  these,  as  Timoleon,  Csesar, 
Brutus,  Pelopidas,  Cato,  and  others,  I  read  and 


VITTORIO   ALFIERI. 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  57 

read  again,  with  such  a  transport  of  cries,  tears, 
and  fury,  that  if  any  one  had  heard  me  in  the  next 
room  he  would  surely  have  thought  me  mad.  In 
meditating  certain  grand  traits  of  these  supreme 
men,  I  often  leaped  to  my  feet,  agitated  and  out  of 
my  senses,  and  tears  of  grief  and  rage  escaped  me 
to  think  that  I  was  born  in  Piedmont,  and  in  a 
time,  and  under  a  government,  where  no  high  thing 
could  be  done  or  said  ;  and  it  was  almost  useless  to 
think  or  feel  it." 

These  characters  had  a  life-long  fascination  for 
Alfieri,  and  his  admiration  of  such  types  deeply  in 
fluenced  his  tragedies.  So  great  was  his  scorn  of 
kings  at  the  time  he  writes  of,  that  he  despised  even 
those  who  liked  them,  and  poor  little  Metastasio, 
who  lived  by  the  bounty  of  Maria  Theresa,  fell 
under  Alfieri's  bitterest  contempt  when  in  Vienna 
he  saw  his  brother-poet  before  the  empress  in  the 
imperial  gardens  at  Schonbrunn,  "  performing  the 
customary  genuflexions  with  a  servilely  contented 
and  adulatory  face.77  This  loathing  of  royalty  was 
naturally  intensified  beyond  utterance  in  Prussia. 
"  On  entering  the  states  of  Frederick,  I  felt  re 
doubled  and  triplicated  my  hate  for  that  infamous 
military  trade,  most  infamous  and  sole  base  of 
arbitrary  power."  He  told  his  minister  that  he 
would  be  presented  only  in  civil  dress,  because  there 
were  uniforms  enough  at  that  court,  and  he  de 
clares  that  on  beholding  Frederick  he  felt  "no 
emotion  of  wonder,  or  of  respect,  but  rather  of  in 
dignation  and  rage.  .  .  .  The  king  addressed  me  the 
three  or  four  customary  words  5  I  fixed  my  eyes 


58  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

respectfully  upon  his,  and  inwardly  blessed  Heaven 
that  I  had  not  been  born  his  slave ;  and  I  issued 
from  that  universal  Prussian  barracks  .  .  .  abhor 
ring  it  as  it  deserved." 

In  Paris  Alfieri  bought  the  principal  Italian 
authors,  which  he  afterwards  carried  everywhere 
with  him  on  his  travels  j  but  he  says  that  he  made 
very  little  use  of  them,  having  neither  the  will  nor 
the  power  to  apply  his  mind  to  anything.  In  fact, 
he  knew  very  little  Italian,  most  of  the  authors  in 
his  collection  were  strange  to  him,  and  at  the  age 
of  twenty-two  he  had  read  nothing  whatever  of 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Tasso,  Boccaccio,  or  Machiavelli. 

He  made  a  journey  into  Spain,  among  other 
countries,  where  he  admired  the  Andalusian  horses, 
and  bored  himself  as  usual  with  what  interests 
educated  people  ;  and  he  signalized  his  stay  at 
Madrid  by  a  murderous  outburst  of  one  of  the 
worst  tempers  in  the  world.  One  night  his  servant 
Elia,  in  dressing  his  hair,  had  the  misfortune  to 
twitch  one  of  his  locks  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  him 
a  slight  pain  5  on  which  Alfieri  leaped  to  his  feet, 
seized  a  heavy  candlestick,  and  without  a  word 
struck  the  valet  such  a  blow  upon  his  temple  that 
the  blood  gushed  out  over  his  face,  and  over  the 
person  of  a  young  Spanish  gentleman  who  had 
been  supping  with  Alfieri.  Elia  sprang  upon  his 
master,  who  drew  his  sword,  but  the  Spaniard  after 
great  ado  quieted  them  both  ;  "  and  so  ended  this 
horrible  encounter,"  says  Alfieri,  "  for  which  I  re 
mained  deeply  afflicted  and  ashamed.  I  told  Elia 
that  he  would  have  done  well  to  kill  me  j  and  he 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  59 

was  the  man  to  have  done  it,  being  a  palm  taller 
than  myself,  who  am  very  tall,  and  of  a  strength 
and  courage  not  inferior  to  his  height.  Two  hours 
later,  his  wound  being  dressed  and  everything  put 
in  order,  I  went  to  bed,  leaving  the  door  from  my 
room  into  Elia's  open  as  usual,  without  listening 
to  the  Spaniard,  who  warned  me  not  thus  to  invite 
a  provoked  and  outraged  man  to  vengeance:  I 
called  to  Elia,  who  had  already  gone  to  bed,  that 
he  could,  if  he  liked  and  thought  proper,  kill  me 
that  night,  for  I  deserved  it.  But  he  was  no  less 
heroic  than  I,  and  would  take  no  other  revenge  than 
to  keep  two  handkerchiefs,  which  had  been  drenched 
in  his  blood,  and  which  from  time  to  time  he  showed 
me  in  the  course  of  many  years.  This  reciprocal 
mixture  of  fierceness  and  generosity  on  both  our 
parts  will  not  be  easily  understood  by  those  who 
have  had  no  experience  of  the  customs  and  of  the 
temper  of  us  Piedmontese;"  though  here,  perhaps, 
Alfieri  does  his  country  too  much  honor  in  making 
his  ferocity  a  national  trait.  For  the  rest,  he  says, 
he  never  struck  a  servant  except  as  he  would  have 
done  an  equal — not  with  a  cane,  but  with  his  fist, 
or  a  chair,  or  anything  else  that  came  to  hand  5 
and  he  seems  to  have  thought  this  a  democratic  if 
not  an  amiable  habit. 

When  at  last  he  went  back  to  Turin,  he  fell  once 
more  into  his  old  life  of  mere  vacancy,  varied  be 
fore  long  by  a  most  unworthy  amour,  of  which  he 
tells  us  that  he  finally  cured  himself  by  causing  his 
servant  to  tie  him  in  his  chair,  and  so  keep  him  a 
prisoner  in  his  own  house.  A  violent  distemper 


60  •  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

followed  this  treatment,  which  the  light-moraled 
gossip  of  the  town  said  Alfieri  had  invented  ex 
clusively  for  his  own  use ;  many  days  he  lay  in  bed 
tormented  by  this  anguish ;  but  when  he  rose  he 
was  no  longer  a  slave  to  his  passion.  Shortly  after, 
he  wrote  a  tragedy,  or  a  tragic  dialogue  rather, 
in  Italian  blank  verse,  called  Cleopatra,  which 
was  played  in  a  Turin ese  theater  with  a  success 
of  which  he  tells  us  he  was  at  once  and  always 
ashamed. 

Yet  apparently  it  encouraged  him  to  persevere  in 
literature,  his  qualifications  for  tragical  authorship 
being  "a  resolute  spirit,  very  obstinate  and  un 
tamed,  a  heart  running  over  with  passions  of  every 
kind,  among  which  predominated  a  bizarre  mixt 
ure  of  love  and  all  its  furies,  and  a  profound  and 
most  ferocious  rage  and  abhorrence  against  all 
tyranny  whatsoever ;  .  .  .  a  very  dim  and  uncer 
tain  remembrance  of  various  French  tragedies  seen 
in  the  theaters  many  years  before  ;  ...  an  almost 
total  ignorance  of  all  the  rules  of  tragic  art,  and  an 
unskillfulness  almost  total  in  the  divine  and  most 
necessary  art  of  writing  and  managing  my  own 
language."  With  this  stock  in  trade,  he  set  about 
turning  his  Filippo  and  his  Polinice,  which  he 
wrote  first  in  French  prose,  into  Italian  verse, 
making  at  the  same  time  a  careful  study  of  the 
Italian  poets.  It  was  at  this  period  that  the  poet 
Ossian  was  introduced  to  mankind  by  the  ingenious 
and  self-sacrificing  Mr.  Macpherson,  and  Cesarotti's 
translation  of  him  came  into  Alfieri's hands.  These 
blank  verses  were  the  first  that  really  pleased  him ; 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI. 

with  a  little  modification  he  thought  they  would 
an  excellent  model  for  the  verse  of  dialogue. 

He  had  now  refused  himself  the  pleasure  of 
reading  French,  and  he  had  nowhere  to  turn  for 
tragic  literature  but  to  the  classics,  which  he  read 
in  literal  versions  while  he  renewed  his  faded  Latin 
with  the  help  of  a  teacher.  But  he  believed  that 
his  originality  as  a  tragic  author  suffered  from  his 
reading,  and  he  determined  to  read  no  more  trage 
dies  till  he  had  made  his  own.  For  this  reason  he 
had  already  given  up  Shakespeare.  "  The  more 
that  author  accorded  with  my  humor  (though  I 
very  well  perceived  all  his  defects),  the  more  I  was 
resolved  to  abstain,"  he  tells  us. 

This  was  during  a  literary  sojourn  in  Tuscany, 
whither  he  had  gone  to  accustom  himself  "  to 
speak,  hear,  think,  and  dream  in  Tuscan,  and  not 
otherwise  evermore."  Here  he  versified  his  first 
two  tragedies,  and  sketched  others  5  and  here,  he 
says,  tl  I  deluged  my  brain  with  the  verses  of 
Petrarch,  of  Dante,  of  Tasso,  and  of  Ariosto,  con 
vinced  that  the  day  would  infallibly  come  in  which 
all  these  forms,  phrases,  and  words  of  others  would 
return  from  its  cells,  blended  and  identified  with 
my  own  ideas  and  emotions." 

He  had  now  indeed  entered  with  all  the  fury  of  his 
nature  into  the  business  of  making  tragedies,  which 
he  did  very  much  as  if  he  had  been  making  love. 
He  abandoned  everything  else  for  it — country, 
home,  money,  friends ;  for  having  decided  to  live 
henceforth  only  in  Tuscany,  and  hating  to  ask  that 
royal  permission  to  remain  abroad,  without  which, 


62  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

annually  renewed,  the  Piedmontese  noble  of  that 
day  could  not  reside  out  of  his  own  country,  he 
gave  up  his  estates  at  Asti  to  his  sister,  keeping 
for  himself  a  pension  that  came  only  to  about  half 
his  former  income.  The  king  of  Piedmont  was 
very  well,  as  kings  went  in  that  day;  and  he  did 
nothing  to  hinder  the  poet's  expatriation.  The 
long  period  of  study  and  production  which  fol 
lowed  Alfieri  spent  chiefly  at  Florence,  but  partly 
also  at  Rome  and  Naples.  During  this  time  he 
wrote  and  printed  most  of  his  tragedies;  and  he 
formed  that  relation,  common  enough  in  the  best 
society  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  the  Count 
ess  of  Albany,  which  continued  as  long  as  he  lived. 
The  countess's  husband  was  the  Pretender  Charles 
Edward,  the  last  of  the  English  Stuarts,  who,  like 
all  his  house,  abetted  his  own  evil  destiny,  and 
was  then  drinking  himself  to  death.  There  were 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  living  with  Alfieri 
which  would  not  perhaps  have  beset  a  less  exalted 
lady,  and  which  required  an  especial  grace  on  the 
part  of  the  Pope.  But  this  the  Pope  refused 
ever  to  bestow,  even  after  being  much  prayed; 
and  when  her  husband  was  dead,  she  and  Alfieri 
were  privately  married,  or  were  not  married;  the 
fact  is  still  in  dispute.  Their  house  became  a  center 
of  fashionable  and  intellectual  society  in  Florence, 
and  to  be  received  in  it  was  the  best  that  could 
happen  to  any  one.  The  relation  seems  to  have 
been  a  sufficiently  happy  one;  neither  was  pain 
fully  scrupulous  in  observing  its  ties,  and  after 
Alfieri's  death  the  countess  gave  to  the  painter 


VTTTORIO    ALFIERI.  63 

Fabre  "a  heart  which/7  says  Massimo  d'Azeglio 
in  his  Memoirs,  "according  to  the  usage  of  the 
time,  and  especially  of  high  society,  felt  the  invin 
cible  necessity  of  keeping  itself  in  continual  exer 
cise."  A  cynical  little  story  of  Alfieri  reading  one 
of  his  tragedies  in  company,  while  Fabre  stood 
behind  him  making  eyes  at  the  countess,  and  from 
time  to  time  kissing  her  ring  on  his  finger,  was 
told  to  D'Azeglio  by  an  aunt  of  his  who  witnessed 
the  scene. 

In  1787  the  poet  went  to  France  to  oversee  the 
printing  of  a  complete  edition  of  his  works,  and 
five  years  later  he  found  himself  in  Paris  when  the 
Revolution  was  at  its  height.  The  countess  was 
with  him,  and,  after  great  trouble,  he  got  pass 
ports  for  both,  and  hurried  to  the  city  barrier. 
The  National  Guards  stationed  there  would  have 
let  them  pass,  but  a  party  of  drunken  patriots 
coming  up  had  their  worst  fears  aroused  by  the 
sight  of  two  carriages  with  sober  and  decent  peo 
ple  in  them,  and  heavily  laden,  with  baggage. 
While  they  parleyed  whether  they  had  better 
stone  the  equipages,  or  set  fire  to  them,  Alfieri 
leaped  out,  and  a  scene  ensued  which  placed  him 
in  a  very  characteristic  light,  and  which  enables  us 
to  see  him  as  it  were  in  person.  When  the  pa 
triots  had  read  the  passports,  he  seized  them,  and, 
as  he  says,  "full  of  disgust  and  rage,  and  not 
knowing  at  the  moment,  or  in  my  passion  despis 
ing  the  immense  peril  that  attended  us,  I  thrice 
shook  my  passport  in  my  hand,  and  shouted  at 
the  top  of  my  voice,  i  Look !  Listen !  Alfieri  is  my 


64  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

name;  Italian  and  not  French 5  tall,  lean,  pale,  red 
hair  ;  I  am  he ;  look  at  me :  I  have  my  passport, 
and  I  have  had  it  legitimately  from  those  who 
could  give  it;  we  wish  to  pass,  and,  by  Heaven, 
we  will  pass ! ?  7: 

They  passed,  and  two  days  later  the  authorities 
that  had  approved  their  passports  confiscated  the 
horses,  furniture,  and  books  that  Alfieri  had  left 
behind  him  in  Paris,  and  declared  him  and  the 
countess — both  foreigners — to  be  refugee  aristo 
crats  ! 

He  established  himself  again  in  Florence,  where, 
in  his  forty-sixth  year,  he  took  up  the  study  of 
Greek,  and  made  himself  master  of  that  literature, 
though,  till  then,  he  had  scarcely  known  the  Greek 
alphabet.  The  chief  fruit  of  this  study  was  a  trag 
edy  in  the  manner  of  Euripides,  which  he  wrote  in 
secret,  and  which  he  read  to  a  company  so  polite 
that  they  thought  it  really  was  Euripides  during 
the  whole  of  the  first  two  acts. 

Alfieri's  remaining  years  were  spent  in  study  and 
the  revision  of  his  works,  to  the  number  of  which 
he  added  six  comedies  in  1800.  The  presence  and 
domination  of  the  detested  French  in  Florence 
embittered  his  life  somewhat ;  but  if  they  had  not 
been  there  he  could  never  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
refusing  to  see  the  French  commandant,  who  had 
a  taste  for  literary  people  if  not  for  literature,  and 
would  fain  have  paid  his  respects  to  the  poet.  He 
must  also  have  found  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  if  the  French  had  become  masters  of  Europe, 
many  kings  had  been  dethroned,  and  every  tyrant 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  65 

who  wore  a  crown  was  in  a  very  pitiable  state  of 
terror  or  disaster. 

Nothing  in  Alfieri's  life  was  more  like  him  than 
his  death,  of  which  the  Abbate  di  Cahiso  gives  a 
full  account  in  his  conclusion  of  the  poet's  biogra 
phy.  His  malady  was  gout,  and  amidst  its  tort 
ures  he  still  labored  at  the  comedies  he  was  then 
writing.  He  was  impatient  at  being  kept  in-doors, 
and  when  they  added  plasters  on  the  feet  to  the 
irksomeness  of  his  confinement,  he  tore  away  the 
bandages  that  prevented  him  from  walking  about 
his  room.  He  would  not  go  to  bed,  and  they  gave 
him  opiates  to  ease  his  anguish;  under  their  in 
fluence  his  mind  was  molested  by  many  memories 
of  things  long  past.  "The  studies  and  labors  of 
thirty  years,77  says  the  Abbate,  "recurred  to  him, 
and  what  was  yet  more  wonderful,  he  repeated 
in  order,  from  memory,  a  good  number  of  Greek 
verses  from  the  beginning  of  Hesiod,  which  he  had 
read  but  once.  These  he  said  over  to  the  Signora 
Contessa,  who  sat  by  his  side,  but  it  does  not 
appear,  for  all  this,  that  there  ever  came  to  him 
the  thought  that  death,  which  he  had  been  for  a 
long  time  used  to  imagine  near,  was  then  immi 
nent.  It  is  certain  at  least  that  he  made  no  sign 
to  the  contessa  though  she  did  not  leave  him  till 
morning.  About  six  o'clock  he  took  oil  and  mag 
nesia  without  the  physician's  advice,  and  near  eight 
he  was  observed  to  be  in  great  danger,  and  the 
Signora  Contessa,  being  called,  found  him  in  ago 
nies  that  took  away  his  breath.  Nevertheless,  he 
rose  from  his  chair,  and  going  to  the  bed,  leaned 


06  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

upon  it,  and  presently  the  day  was  darkened  to 
him,  his  eyes  closed  and  he  expired.  The  duties 
and  consolations  of  religion  were  not  forgotten, 
but  the  evil  was  not  thought  so  near,  nor  haste 
necessary,  and  so  the  confessor  who  was  called  did 
not  come  in  time."  D'Azeglio  relates  that  the  con 
fessor  arrived  at  the  supreme  moment,  and  saw  the 
poet  bow  his  head:  "He  thought  it  was  a  saluta 
tion,  but  it  was  the  death  of  Vittorio  Alfieri." 


1! 


I  ONCE  fancied  that  a  parallel  between  Alfieri 
and  Byron  might  be  drawn,  but  their  disparities 
are  greater  than  their  resemblances,  on  the  whole. 
Both,  however,  were  born  noble,  both  lived  in  vol 
untary  exile,  both  imagined  themselves  friends 
and  admirers  of  liberty,  both  had  violent  natures, 
and  both  indulged  the  curious  hypocrisy  of  desir 
ing  to  seem  worse  than  they  were,  and  of  trying  to 
make  out  a  shocking  case  for  themselves  when 
they  could.  They  were  men  who  hardly  outgrew 
their  boyishness.  Alfieri,  indeed,  had  to  struggle 
against  so  many  defects  of  training  that  he  could 
not  have  reached  maturity  in  the  longest  life ;  and 
he  was  ruled  by  passions  and  ideals  j  he  hated  with 
equal  noisiness  the  tyrants  of  Europe  and  the 
Frenchmen  who  dethroned  them. 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  67 

When  lie  left  the  life  of  a  dissolute  young  noble 
for  that  of  tragic  authorship,  he  seized  upon  such 
histories  and  fables  as  would  give  the  freest  course 
to  a  harsh,  narrow,  gloomy,  vindictive,  and  declam 
atory  nature  ;  and  his  dramas  reproduce  the  terri 
ble  fatalistic  traditions  of  the  Greeks,  the  stories 
of  (Edipus,  Myrrha,  Alcestis,  Clytemnestra,  Ores 
tes,  and  such  passages  of  Roman  history  as  those 
relating  to  the  Brutuses  and  to  Virginia.  In  mod 
ern  history  he  has  taken  such  characters  and 
events  as  those  of  Philip  II.,  Mary  Stuart,  Don 
Garzia,  and  the  Conspiracy  of  the  Pazzi.  Two  of 
his  tragedies  are  from  the  Bible,  the  Abel  and  the 
Saul;  one,  the  Eosmunda,  from  Longobardic  his 
tory.  And  these  themes,  varying  so  vastly  as  to 
the  times,  races,  and  religions  with  which  they 
originated,  are  all  treated  in  the  same  spirit — the 
spirit  Alfleri  believed  Greek.  Their  interest  comes 
from  the  situation  and  the  action ;  of  character,  as 
we  have  it  in  the  romantic  drama,  and  supremely 
in  Shakespeare,  there  is  scarcely  anything;  and 
the  language  is  shorn  of  all  metaphor  and  pictur- 
/  esque  expression.  Of  course  their  form  is  wholly 
unlike  that  of  the  romantic  drama;  Alfieri  holds 
fast  by  the  famous  unities  as  the  chief  and  saving 
grace  of  tragedy.  All  his  actions  take  place  within 
twenty-four  hours ;  there  is  no  change  of  scene,  and 
so  far  as  he  can  master  that  most  obstinate  unity, 
the  unity  of  action,  each  piece  is  furnished  with  a 
tangible  beginning,  middle,  and  ending.  The  wide 
stretches  of  time  which  the  old  Spanish  and  Eng 
lish  and  all  modern  dramas  cover,  and  their  fre- 


68  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

quent  transitions  from  place  to  place,  were  impos 
sible  and  abhorrent  to  him. 

Emiliani-Giudici,  the  Italian  critic,  writing  about 
the  middle  of  our  century,  declares  that  when  the 
fiery  love  of  freedom  shall  have  purged  Italy,  the 
Alfierian  drama  will  be  the  only  representation 
worthy  of  a  great  and  free  people.  This  critic  holds 
that  Alfieri's  tragical  ideal  was  of  such  a  simplicity 
that  it  would  seem  derived  regularly  from  the 
Greek,  but  for  the  fact  that  when  he  felt  irresisti 
bly  moved  to  write  tragedy,  he  probably  did  not 
know  even  the  names  of  the  Greek  dramatists,  and 
could  not  have  known  the  structure  of  their  dramas 
by  indirect  means,  having  read  then  only  some 
Metastasian  plays  of  the  French  school  •  so  that  he 
created  that  ideal  of  his  by  pure,  instinctive  force 
of  genius.  With  him,  as  with  the  Greeks,  art  arose 
spontaneously ;  he  felt  the  form  of  Greek  art  by 
inspiration.  He  believed  from  the  very  first  that 
the  dramatic  poet  should  assume  to  render  the  spec, 
tators  unconscious  of  theatrical  artifice,  and  make 
them  take  part  with  the  actors ;  and  he  banished 
from  the  scene  everything  that  could  diminish  their 
illusion ;  he  would  not  mar  the  intensity  of  the 
effect  by  changing  the  action  from  place  to  place, 
or  by  com  pressing  within  the  brief  time  of  the  rep 
resentation  the  events  of  months  and  years.  To 
achieve  the  unity  of  action,  he  dispensed  with  all 
those  parts  which  did  not  seem  to  him  the  most 
principal,  and  he  studied  how  to  show  the  subject 
of  the  drama  in  the  clearest  light.  In  all  this  he 
went  to  the  extreme,  but  he  so  wrought  "  that  the 
print  of  his  cothurnus  stamped  upon  the  field  of 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  69 

art  should  remain  forever  singular  and  inimitable. 
Reading  his  tragedies  in  order,  from  the  Cleopatra 
to  the  Saul,  you  see  how  he  never  changed  his 
tragic  ideal,  but  discerned  it  more  and  more  dis 
tinctly  until  he  fully  realized  it.  ^Eschylus  and 
Alfieri  are  two  links  that  unite  the  chain  in  a  cir 
cle.  In  Alfieri  art  once  more  achieved  the  fault- 
!  less  purity  of  its  proper  character ;  Greek  tragedy 
reached  the  same  height  in  the  Italian's  Saul  that 
it  touched  in  the  Greek's  Prometheus,  two  dramas 
which  are  perhaps  the  most  gigantic  creations  of 
any  literature."  Emiliani-Giudici  thinks  that  the 
literary  ineducation  of  Alfieri  was  the  principal  ex 
terior  cause  of  this  prodigious  development,  that  a 
more  regular  course  of  study  would  have  restrained 
his  creative  genius,  and,  while  smoothing  the  way 
before  it,  would  have  subjected  it  to  methods  and 
robbed  it  of  originality  of  feeling  and  conception. 
"  Tragedy,  born  sublime,  terrible,  vigorous,  heroic, 
the  life  of  liberty,  .  .  .  was,  as  it  were,  redeemed 
by  Vittorio  Alfieri,  reassumed  the  masculine,  ath 
letic  forms  of  its  original  existence,  and  recom 
menced  the  exercise  of  its  lost  ministry ." 

I  do  not  begin  to  think  this  is  all  true.  Alfieri 
himself  owns  his  acquaintance  with  the  French 
theater  before  the  time  when  he  began  to  write, 
and  we  must  believe  that  he  got  at  least  some  of 
his  ideas  of  Athens  from  Paris,  though  he  liked 
the  Frenchmen  none  the  better  for  his  obliga 
tion  to  them.  A  less  mechanical  conception  of 
the  Greek  idea  than  his  would  have  prevented 
its  application  to  historical  subjects.  In  Alfieri's 
Brutus  the  First,  a  far  greater  stretch  of  imagina- 


70  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

tion  is  required  from  the  spectator  in  order  to  pre 
serve  the  unities  of  time  and  place  than  the  most 
capricious  changes  of  scene  would  have  asked.  The 
scene  is  always  in  the  forum  in  Rome ;  the  action 
occurs  within  twenty-four  hours.  During  this  lim 
ited  time,  we  see  the  body  of  Lucretia  borne  along 
in  the  distance  j  Brutus  harangues  the  people  with 
the  bloody  dagger  in  his  hand.  The  emissaries  of 
Tarquin  arrive  and  organize  a  conspiracy  against 
the  new  republic ;  the  sons  of  Brutus  are  found  in 
the  plot,  and  are  convicted  and  put  to  death. 


in 


BUT  such  incongruities  as  these  do  not  affect  us 
in  the  tragedies  based  on  the  heroic  fables;  here 
the  poet  takes,  without  offense,  any  liberty  he 
likes  with  time  and  place;  the  whole  affair  is  in 
his  hands,  to  do  what  he  will,  so  long  as  he 
respects  the  internal  harmony  of  his  own  work. 
For  this  reason,  I  think,  we  find  Alfieri  at  his  best 
in  these  tragedies,  among  which  I  have  liked  the 
Orestes  best,  as  giving  the  widest  range  of  feeling 
with  the  greatest  vigor  of  action.  The  Agamem 
non,  which  precedes  it,  and  which  ought  to  be 
read  first,  closes  with  its  most  powerful  scene. 
Agamemnon  has  returned  from  Troy  to  Argos 
with  his  captive  Cassandra,  and  ^Egisthus  has  per 
suaded  Clytemnestra  that  her  husband  intends  to 
raise  Cassandra  to  the  throne.  She  kills  him  and 


VITTORIO    AL.FIERI.  71 

reigns  with  JEgisthus,  Electra  concealing  Orestes 
on  the  night  of  the  murder,  and  sending  him 
seqretly  away  with  Strophius,  king  of  Phocis. 

In  the  last  scene,  as  Clytemnestra  steals  through 
the  darkness  to  her  husband's  chamber,  she  solilo 
quizes,  with  the  dagger  in  her  hand : 

It  is  the  hour;    and  sunk  in  slumber  now 

Lies  Agamemnon.      Shall  he  nevermore 

Open  his  eyes  to  the  fair  light?     My  hand, 

Once  pledge  to  him  of  stainless  love  and  faith, 

Is  it  to  be  the  minister  of  his  death*? 

Did  I  swear  that?     Ay,  that;   and  I  must  keep 

My  oath.     Quick,  let  me  go!     My  foot,  heart,  hand — 

All  over  I  tremble.      Oh,  what  did  I  promise  ? 

Wretch!   what  do  I  attempt?      How  all  my  courage 

Hath  vanished  from  me  since  ^Egisthus  vanished! 

I  only  see  the  immense  atrocity 

Of  this,  my  horrible  deed;   I  only  see 

The  bloody  specter  of  Atrides !      Ah, 

In  vain  do  I  accuse  thee !      No,  thou  lovest 

Cassandra  not.      Me,  only  me,  thou  lovest, 

Unworthy  of  thy  love.      Thou  hast  no  blame, 

Save  that  thou  art  my  husband,  in  the  world! 

0  Heaven !   Atrides,  thou  sent  from  the  arms 
Of  trustful  sleep,  to  death's  arms  by  my  hand? 
And  where  then  shall  I  hide  me  ?      0  perfidy ! 
Can  I  e'er  hope  for  peace?      0  woful  life  — 
Life  of  remorse,  of  madness,  and  of  tears! 
How  shall  -ZEgisthus,  even  .ZEgisthus,  dare 

To  rest  beside  the  parricidal  wife 
Upon  her  murder-stained  marriage-bed, 
Nor  tremble  for  himself  ?     Away,  away,  — 
Hence,  horrible  instrument  of  all  my  guilt 
And  harm,  thou  execrable  dagger,  hence ! 

1  '11  lose  at  once  my  lover  and  my  life, 


72  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

But  never  by  this  hand  betrayed  shall  fall 

So  great  a  hero!      Live,  honor  of  Greece 

And  Asia's  terror!     Live  to  glory,  live 

To  thy  dear  children,  and  a  better  wife! 

—But  what  are  these  hushed  steps  ?     Into  these  rooms 

Who  is  it  comes  by  night?    JEgisthus? —  Lost, 

I  am  lost! 

JZEgisfhus.   Hast  thou  not  done  the  deed? 

C  ly .  JEgisthus 

JEg.    What,    stand'st   thou  here,  wasting  thyself  in 

tears  ? 

Woman,  untimely  are  thy  tears;   't  is  late, 
'T  is  vain,  and  it  may  cost  us  dear ! 

Cly.  Thou  here? 

But  how — woe  's  me,  what  did  I  promise  thee! 
What  wicked  counsel — 

JEg.  Was  it  not  thy  counsel? 

Love  gave  it  thee  and  fear  annuls  it — well! 
Since  thou  repentest,  I  am  glad;   and  glad 
To  know  thee  guiltless  shall  I  be  in  death. 
I  told  thee  that  the  enterprise  was  hard, 
But  thou,  unduly  trusting  in  the  heart, 
That  hath  not  a  man's  courage  in  it,  chose 
Thyself  thy  feeble  hands  to  strike  the  blow. 
Now  may  Heaven  grant  that  the  intent  of  evil 
Turn  not  to  harm  thee !      Hither  I  by  stealth 
And  favor  of  the  darkness  have  returned 
Unseen,  I  hope.     For  I  perforce  must  come 
Myself  to  tell  thee  that  irrevocably 
My  life  is  dedicated  to  the  vengeance 
Of  Agamemnon. 

He  appeals  to  her  pity  for  him,  and  her  fear  for 
herself ;  he  reminds  her  of  Agamemnon's  consent  to 
the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  and  goads  her  on  to  the 


VITTOEIO    ALFIERI.  73 

crime  from  which  she  had  recoiled.     She  goes  into 
Agamemnon's  chamber,  whence  his  dying  outcries 

are  heard :  — 

0  treachery! 

Thou,  wife  ?      0  heavens,  I  die  !      0  treachery ! 

Clytemnestra  comes  out  with  the  dagger  in  her 
hand: 

The  dagger  drips  with  blood;  my  hands,  my  robe, 
My  face — they  all   are   wet  with   blood.    What  ven 
geance 

Shall  yet  be  taken  for  this  blood?     Already 
I  see  this  very  steel  turned  on  my  breast, 
whose  hand! 


The  son  whom  she  forebodes  as  the  avenger 
Agamemnon's  death  passes  his  childhood  and 
early  youth  at  the  court  of  Strophius  in  Phocis. 
The  tragedy  named  for  him  opens  with  Eleetra's 
soliloquy  as  she  goes  to  weep  at  the  tomb  of  their 
father:  — 

Night,  gloomy,  horrible,  atrocious  night, 

Forever  present  to  my  thought!  each  year 

For  now  two  lusters  I  have  seen  thee  come, 

Clothed  on  with  darkness  and  with  dreams  of  blood, 

And  blood  that  should  have  expiated  thine 

Is  not  yet  spilt!      0  memory,  0  sight! 

0  Agamemnon,  hapless  father,  here 

Upon  these  stones  I  saw  thee  murdered  lie, 

Murdered,  and  by  whose  hand!  .  . 

I  swear  to  thee, 

If  I  in  Argos,  in  thy  palace  live, 
Slave  of  ^gisthus,  with  my  wicked  mother, 
Nothing  makes  me  endure  a  life  like  this 
Saving  the  hope  of  vengeance.     Far  away 
4 


Or 

ad 


74  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Orestes  is ;   but  living !      I  saved  thee,  brother ; 
I  keep  myself  for  thee,  till  the  day  rise 
When  thou  shalt  make  to  stream  upon  yon  tomb 
Not  helpless  tears  like  these,  but  our  foe's  blood. 

While  Electra  fiercely  muses,  Clytemnestra  enters, 
with  the  appeal : 

Cly.   Daughter ! 

El.  "What  voice  !     0  Heaven,  thou  here  ? 

Cly.  My  daughter, 

Ah,  do  not  fly  me!      Thy  pious  task  I  fain 
Would  share  with  thee.      JEgisthus  in  vain  forbids, 
He  shall  not  know.     Ah,  come!  go  we  together 
Unto  the  tomb. 

El.  Whose  tomb? 

Thy — hapless  —  father's. 

El.   Wherefore  not  say  thy  husband's  tomb?    'T  is 

well : 

Thou  darest  not  speak  it.      But  how  dost  thou  dare 
Turn  thitherward  thy  steps — thou  that  dost  reek 
Yet  with  his  blood? 

Cly.  Two  lusters  now  are  passed 

Since  that  dread  day,  and  two  whole  lusters  now 
I  weep  my  crime. 

El.  And  what  time  were  enough 

For  that?     Ah,  if  thy  tears  should  be  eternal, 
They  yet  were  nothing.      Look!      Seest  thou  not  still 
The  blood  upon  these  horrid  walls  the  blood 
That  thou  didst  splash  them  with?     And  at  thy  pres 
ence 

Lo,  how  it  reddens  and  grows  quick  again! 
Fly,  thou,  whom  I  must  never  more  call  mother! 

Cly.  Oh,  woe  is  me!      What  can  I  answer?     Pity— 
But  I  merit  none !  —And  yet  if  in  my  heart, 


VITTOEIO    ALFIERI.  75 

Daughter,  thou  couldst  but  read — ah,  who  could  look 

Into  the  secret  of  a  heart  like  mine, 

Contaminated  with  such  infamy, 

And  not  abhor  me?     I  blame  not  thy  wrath, 

No,  nor  thy  hate.     On  earth  I  feel  already 

The  guilty  pangs  of  heU.     Scarce  had  the  blow 

Escaped  my  hand  before  a  swift  remorse, 

Swift  but  too  late,  fell  terrible  upon  me. 

From  that  hour  still  the  sanguinary  ghost 

By  day  and  night,  and  ever  horrible, 

Hath  moved  before  mine  eyes.     Whene'er  I  turn 

I  see  its  bleeding  footsteps  trace  the  path 

That  I  must  follow  j   at  table,  on  the  throne, 

It  sits  beside  me;  on  my  bitter  pillow 

If  e'er  it  chance  I  close  mine  eyes  in  sleep, 

The  specter  —  fatal  vision! — instantly 

Shows  itself  in  my  dreams,  and  tears  the  breast, 

Already  mangled,  with  a  furious  hand, 

And  thence  draws  both  its  palms  full  of  dark  blood, 

To  dash  it  in  my  face !     On  dreadful  nights 

Follow  more  dreadful  days.     In  a  long  death 

I  live  my  life.     Daughter,  —  whate'er  I  am, 

Thou  art  my  daughter  still,  —  dost  thou  not  weep 

At  tears  like  mine? 

Clytemnestra  confesses  that  ^Egisthus  no  longer 
loves  her,  but  she  loves  him,  and  she  shrinks  from 
Electra's  fierce  counsel  that  she  shall  kill  him.  He 
enters  to  find  her  in  tears,  and  a  violent  scene 
between  him  and  Electra  follows,  in  which  Cly 
temnestra  interposes. 

Cly.   0  daughter,  he  is  my  husband.     Think,  ^Egis- 

thus, 
She  is  my  daughter. 


76  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

^fft  She  is  Atrides'  daughter! 

El.   He  is  Atrides'  murderer! 

Cly.  Electra! 

Have  pity,  JEgisthus!    Look—  the  tomb!    Oh,  look, 
The  horrible  tomb!—  and  art  thou  not  content? 

JEg.  Woman,  be  less  unlike  thyself.    Atrides,— 
Tell  me  by  whose  hand  in  yon  tomb  he  lies? 

Cly.   0  mortal  blame!     What  else  is  lacking  now 
To  my  unhappy,  miserable  life? 
Who  drove  me  to  it  now  upbraids  my  crime  ! 

El.   O  marvelous  joy!    0  only  joy  that  's  blessed 
My  heart  in  these  ten  years!    I  see  you  both 
At  last  the  prey  of  anger  and  remorse  ; 
I  hear  at  last  what  must  the  endearments  be 
Of  love  so  blood-stained. 


The  first  act  closes  with  a  scene  between 
thus  and  Clytemnestra,  in  which  he  urges  her  to 
consent  that  he  shall  send  to  have  Orestes  mur 
dered,  and  reminds  her  of  her  former  crimes  when 
she  revolts  from  this.  The  scene  is  very  well  man 
aged,  with  that  sparing  phrase  which  in  Alfieri  is 
quite  as  apt  to  be  touchingly  simple  as  bare  and 
poor.  In  the  opening  scene  of  the  second  act,  Ores 
tes  has  returned  in  disguise  to  Argos  with  Pylades 
the  son  of  Strophius,  to  whom  he  speaks  : 

We  are  come  at  last.     Here  Agamemnon  fell, 
Murdered,  and  here  JEgisthus  reigns.     Here  rose 
In  memory  still,  though  I  a  child  departed, 
These  natal  walls,  and  the  just  Heaven  in  time 
Leads  me  back  hither. 

Twice  five  years  have  passed 

This  very  day  since  that  dread  night  of  blood, 
When,  slain  by  treachery,  my  father  made 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  77 

The  whole  wide  palace  with  his  dolorous  cries 
Echo  again.     Oh,  well  do  I  remember! 
Electra  swiftly  bore  me  through  this  hall 
Thither  where  Strophius  in  his  pitying  arms 
Received  me  —  Strophius,  less  by  far  thy  father 
Than  mine,  thereafter — and  fled  onward  with  me 
By  yonder  postern-gate,  all  tremulous; 
And  after  me  there  ran  upon  the  air 
Long  a  wild  clamor  and  a  lamentation 
That  made  me  weep  and  shudder  and  lament, 
I  knew  not  why,  and  weeping  Strophius  ran, 
Preventing  with  his  hand  my  outcries  shrill, 
Clasping  me  close,  and  sprinkling  all  my  face 
With  bitter  tears;   and  to  the  lonely  coast, 
Where  only  now  we  landed,  with  his  charge 
He  came  apace;   and  eagerly  unfurled 
His  sails  before  the  wind. 

Pylades  strives  to  restrain  the  passion  for  re 
venge  in  Orestes,  which  imperils  them  both.  The 
friend  proposes  that  they  shall  feign  themselves 
messengers  sent  by  Strophius  with  tidings  of 
Orestes'  death,  and  Orestes  has  reluctantly  con 
sented,  when  Electra  re-appears,  and  they  recog 
nize  each  other.  Pylades  discloses  their  plan,  and 
when  her  brother  urges,  "  The  means  is  vile,"  she 
answers,  all  woman, — 

Less  vile  than  is  ^gisthus.      There  is  none 

Better  or  surer,  none,  believe  me.     When 

You  are  led  to  him,  let  it  be  mine  to  think 

Of  all — the  place,  the  manner,  time,  and  arms, 

To  kill  him.     Still  I  keep,  Orestes,  still 

I  keep  the  steel  that  in  her  husband's  breast 

She  plunged  whom  nevermore  we  might  call  mother. 


78  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Orestes.   How  fares  it  with  that  impious  woman? 

Electra.  Ah, 

Thou  canst  not  know  how  she  drags  out  her  life! 
Save  only  Agamemnon's  children,  all 
Must  pity  her  —  and  even  we  must  pity. 
Full  ever  of  suspicion  and  of  terror, 
And  held  in  scorn  even  by  JEgisthus'  self, 
Loving  JEgisthus  though  she  know  his  guilt; 
Repentant,  and  yet  ready  to  renew 
Her  crime,  perchance,  if  the  unworthy  love 
Which  is  her  shame  and  her  abhorrence,  would; 
Now  wife,  now  mother,  never  wife  nor  mother, 
Bitter  remorse  gnaws  at  her  heart  by  day 
Unceasingly,  and  horrible  shapes  by  night 
Scare  slumber  from  her  eyes.  —  So  fares  it  with  her. 

In  the  third  scene  of  the  following  act  Clytem- 
nestra  meets  Orestes  and  Pylades,  who  announce 
themselves  as  messengers  from  Phocis  to  the  king ; 
she  bids  them  deliver  their  tidings  to  her,  and  they 
finally  do  so,  Pylades  struggling  to  prevent  Ores 
tes  from  revealing  himself.  There  are  tonchingly 
simple  and  natural  passages  in  the  lament  that 
Clytemnestra  breaks  into  over  her  son's  death,  and 
there  is  fire,  with  its  true  natural  extinction  in  tears, 
when  she  upbraids  ^Egisthus,  who  now  enters : 

My  fair  fame  and  my  husband  and  my  peace, 
My  only  son  beloved,  I  gave  thee  all. 

All  that  I  gave  thou  did'st  account  as  nothing 
While  aught  remained  to  take.     Who  ever  saw 
At  once  so  cruel  and  so  false  a  heart? 
The  guilty  love  that  thou  did'st  feign  so  ill 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  79 

And  I  believed  so  well,  what  hindrance  to  it, 

What  hindrance,  tell  me,  was  the  child  Orestes? 

Yet  scarce  had  Agamemnon  died  before 

Thou  did'st  cry  out  for  his  son's  blood;   and  searched 

Through  all  the  palace  in  thy  fury.      Then 

The  blade  thou  durst  not  wield  against  the  father, 

Then  thou  didst  brandish!     Ay,  bold  wast  thou  then 

Against  a  helpless  child!   .  .  . 

Unhappy  son,  what  booted  it  to  save  thee 

From  thy  sire's  murderer,  since  thou  hast  found 

Death  ere  thy  time  in  strange  lands  far  away  "? 

^Egisthus,  villainous  usurper!     Thou, 

Thou  hast  slain  my  son!     ^gisthus  —  Oh  forgive! 

I  was  a  mother,  and  am  so  no  more. 

Throughout  this  scene,  and  in  the  soliloquy  pre 
ceding  it,  Alfieri  paints  very  forcibly  the  struggle  in 
Clytemnestra  between  her  love  for  her  son  and  her 
love  for  ^Egisthus,  to  whom  she  clings  even  while 
he  exults  in  the  tidings  that  wring  her  heart.  It  is 
all  too  baldly  presented,  doubtless,  but  it  is  very 
effective  and  affecting. 

Orestes  and  Pylades  are  now  brought  before 
^gisthus,  and  he  demands  how  and  where  Orestes 
died,  for  after  his  first  rejoicing  he  has  come  to 
doubt  the  fact.  Pylades  responds  in  one  of  those 
speeches  with  which  Alfieri  seems  to  carve  the 
scene  in  bas-relief : 

Every  fifth  year  an  ancient  use  renews 

In  Crete  the  games  and  offerings  unto  Jove. 

The  love  of  glory  and  innate  ambition 

Lure  to  that  coast  the  youth ;  and  by  his  side 

Goes  Pylades,  inseparable  from  him. 


80  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

In  the  light  car  upon  the  arena  wide. 
The  hopes  of  triumph  urge  him  to  contest 
The  proud  palm  of  the  flying-footed  steeds. 
And,  too  intent  on  winning,  there  his  life 
He  gives  for  victory. 

JEg.  But  how  ?     Say  on. 

Pyl.  Too  fierce,  impatient,  and  incautious,  he 
Now  frights  his  horses  on  with  threatening  cries, 
Now  whirls  his  blood-stained  whip,  and  lashes  them, 
Till  past  the  goal  the  ill-tamed  coursers  fly 
Faster  and  faster.     Reckless  of  the  rein, 
Deaf  to  the  voice  that  fain  would  soothe  them  now, 
Their  nostrils  breathing  fire,  their  loose  manes  tossed 
Upon  the  wind,  and  in  thick  clouds  involved 
Of  choking  dust,  round  the  vast  circle's  bound, 
As  lightning  swift  they  whirl  and  whirl  again. 
Fright,  horror,  mad  confusion,  death,  the  car 
Spreads  in  its  crooked  circles  everywhere, 
Until  at  last,  the  smoking  axle  dashed 
With  horrible  shock  against  a  marble  pillar, 
Orestes  headlong  falls  — 

Cly.  No  more !     Ah,  peace  ! 

His  mother  hears  thee. 

Pyl.  It  is  true.     Forgive  me. 

I  will  not  tell  how,  horribly  dragged  on, 
His  streaming  life-blood  soaked  the  arena's  dust  — 
Pylades  ran  —  in  vain  —  within  his  arms 
His  friend  expired. 

Cly.  0  wicked  death  ! 

Pyl.  In  Crete 

All  men  lamented  him,  so  potent  in  him 
Were  beauty,  grace,  and  daring. 

Cly.  Nay,  who  would  not 

Lament  him  save  this  wretch  alone  ?     Dear  son, 
Must  I  then  never,  never  see  thee  more? 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  81 

0  me !  too  well  I  see  thee  crossing  now 
The  Stygian  stream  to  clasp  thy  father's  shade : 
Both  turn  your  frowning  eyes  askance  on  me, 
Burning  with  dreadful  wrath!    Yea,  it  was  I, 
'T  was  I  that  slew  you  both.     Infamous  mother 
And  guilty  wife! — Now  art  content,  JEgisthus? 

JEgisthus  still  doubts,  and  pursues  the  pretended 
messengers  with  such  insulting  question  that  Ores 
tes,  goaded  beyond  endurance,  betrays  that  their 
character  is  assumed.  They  are  seized  and  about 
to  be  led  to  prison  in  chains,  when  Electra  enters 
and  in  her  anguish  at  the  sight  exclaims,  "  Orestes 
led  to  die  !  »  Then  ensues  a  heroic  scene,  in  which 
each  of  the  friends  claims  to  be  Orestes.  At  last 
Orestes  shows  the  dagger  Electra  has  given  him, 
and  offers  it  to  Clytemnestra,  that  she  may  stab 
^Egisthus  with  the  same  weapon  with  which  she 
killed  Agamemnon : 

To  thee  I  give  my  dagger 
Whom   then    I    would    call   mother.       Take    it;    thou 

know'st  how 

To  wield  it ;  plunge  it  in  JEgisthus'  heart ! 
Leave  me  to  die ;  I  care  not,  if  I  see 
My  father  avenged.     I  ask  no  other  proof 
Of  thy  maternal  love  from  thee.     Quick,  now, 
Strike !    Oh,  what  is  it  that  I  see  ?      Thou  tremblest  ? 
Thou  growest  pale  ?    Thou  weepest  f    From  thy  hand 
The  dagger  falls?    Thou  lov'st  ^Egisthus,  lov'st  him 
And  art  Orestes'  mother?    Madness!    Go 
And  never  let  me  look  on  thee  again ! 

^Egisthus  dooms  Electra  to  the  same  death  with 
Orestes  and  Pylades,  but  on  the  way  to  prison  the 


82  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

guards  liberate  them  all,  and  the  Argives  rise 
against  the  usurper  with  the  beginning  of  the  fifth 
act,  which  I  shall  give  entire,  because  I  think  it 
very  characteristic  of  Alfieri,  and  necessary  to  a 
conception  of  his  vehement,  if  somewhat  arid,  gen 
ius.  I  translate  as  heretofore  almost  line  for  line, 
and  word  for  word,  keeping  the  Italian  order  as 
nearly  as  I  can. 

SCENE  I. 

and  Soldiers. 


JEg.  0  treachery  unf  oreseen  !     0  madness  !     Freed, 
Orestes  freed  ?    Now  we  shall  see  .  .  . 

Enter  CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Cly.  Ah!  turn 

Backward  thy  steps. 

j53g.  Ah,  wretch,  dost  thou  arm  too 

Against  me? 

Cly.  I  would  save  thee.    Hearken  to  me, 

I  am  no  longer  — 

^Eg.  Traitress  — 

Cly.  Stay  ! 

JEg.  Thou  'st  promised 

Haply  to  give  me  to  that  wretch  alive  ? 

Cly.    To  keep   thee,    save   thee   from   him,    I  have 

sworn, 

Though  I  should  perish  for  thee  !     Ah,  remain 
And  hide  thee  here  in  safety.     I  will  be 
Thy  stay  against  his  fury  — 

2Eg.  Against  his  fury 

My  sword  shall  be  my  stay.     Go,  leave  me  ! 
I  go  — 

Cly.  Whither? 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  83 

JEg.  To  km  him  ! 

Cly.  To  thy  death  thou  goest! 

0  me  !    What  dost  thou  ?     Hark !    Dost  thou  not  hear 
The  yells  and  threats  of  the  whole  people?    Hold! 

1  will  not  leave  thee. 

JEg.  Nay,  thou  hop'st  in  vain 

To  save  thy  impious  son  from  death.     Hence !  Peace  ! 
Or  I  will  else  — 

Cly.  Oh,  yes,  JEgisthus,  kill  me, 

If  thou  believest  me  not.     "  Orestes !  "     Hark ! 
"  Orestes  !  "    How  that  terrible  name  on  high 
Rings  everywhere  !     I  am  no  longer  mother 
When  thou  'rt  in  danger.     Against  my  blood  I  grow 
Cruel  once  more. 

JEg.  Thou  knowest  well  the  Argives 

Do  hate  thy  face,  and  at  the  sight  of  thee 
The  fury  were  redoubled  in  their  hearts. 
The  tumult  rises.     Ah,  thou  wicked  wretch, 
Thou  wast  the  cause !     For  thee  did  I  delay 
Vengeance  that  turns  on  me  now. 

Cly.  Kill  me,  then! 

j?Eg.  I  '11  find  escape  some  other  way. 

Cly.  I  follow- 

~3Eg.  Ill  shield  wert  thou  for  me.   Leave  me — away, 

away ! 
At  no  price  would  I  have  thee  by  my  side  !          [Exit. 

Cly.  All  hunt  me  from  them !  0  most  hapless  state  I 
My  son  no  longer  owns  me  for  his  mother, 
My  husband  for  his  wife :  and  wife  and  mother 
I  still  must  be !    0  misery !    Afar 
I  '11  follow  him,  nor  lose  the  way  he  went. 

Enter  ELECTRA. 

El.  Mother,  where  goest  thou !  Turn  thy  steps  again 
Into  the  palace.    Danger  — 


84  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Cly.  Orestes — speak! 

Where  is  lie  ?    "What  does  he  do  "? 

El.  Orestes, 

Pylades,  and  myself,  we  are  all  safe. 
Even  ^Egisthus'  minions  pitied  us. 
They  cried,  "  This  is  Orestes ! "  and  the  people, 
"  Long  live  Orestes  !    Let  JEgisthus  die  ! " 

Cly.  What  do  I  hear  •? 

El.  Calm  thyself,  mother ;  soon 

Thou  shalt  behold  thy  son  again,  and  soon 
Th'  infamous  tyrant's  corse  — 

Cly.  Ah,  cruel,  leave  me! 

I  go— 

El.    No,  stay !    The  people  rage,  and  cry 
Out  on  thee  for  a  parricidal  wife. 
Show  thyself  not  as  yet,  or  thou  incurrest 
Great  peril.     'T  was  for  this  I  came.     In  thee 
A  mother's  agony  appeared,  to  see 
Thy  children  dragged  to  death,  and  thou  hast  now 
Atoned  for  thy  misdeed.     My  brother  sends  me 
To  comfort  thee,  to  succor  and  to  hide  thee 
From  dreadful  sights.     To  find  ^Egisthus  out, 
All  armed  meanwhile,  he  and  his  Pylades 
Search  everywhere.    Where  is  the  wicked  wretch  ? 

Cly.  Orestes  is  the  wicked  wretch  ! 

El.  0  Heaven! 

Cly.  I  go  to  save  him  or  to  perish  with  him. 

El.  Nay,  mother,  thou   shalt   never  go.     Thou  rav- 
est  — 

Cly.  The  penalty  is  mine.     I  go  — 

El.  0  mother ! 

The  monster  that  but  now  thy  children  doomed 
To  death,  wouldst  thou  — 

Cly.  Yes,  I  would  save  him  —  I! 

Out  of  my  path !     My  terrible  destiny 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  85 

I  must  obey.     He  is  my  husband.     All 

Too  dear  he  cost  me.     I  will  not,  can  not  lose  him. 

You  I  abhor,  traitors,  not  children  to  me ! 

I  go  to  him.    Loose  me,  thou  wicked  girl! 

At  any  risk  I  go,  and  may  I  only 

Reach  him  in  time!  [Exit. 

EL  Go  to  thy  fate,  then,  go, 

If  thou  wilt  so,  but  be  thy  steps  too  late  ! 
Why  can  not  I,  too,  arm  me  with  a  dagger, 
To  pierce  with  stabs  a  thousand-fold  the  breast 
Of  infamous  ^Egisthus !     0  blind  mother,  oh, 
How  art  thou  fettered  to  his  baseness !    Yet, 
And  yet,  I  tremble —    If  the  angry  mob 
Avenge  their  murdered  king  on  her  —    0  Heaven ! 
Let  me  go  after  her —    But  who  comes  here? 
Pylades,  and  my  brother  not  beside  him? 

Enter  PYLADES. 

Oh,  tell  me !    Orestes  —  ? 

Pyl>  Compasses  the  palace 

About  with  swords.    And  now  our  prey  is  safe. 
Where  lurks  JEgisthus !    Hast  thou  seen  him  ? 

El.  Nay, 

I  saw  and  strove  in  vain  a  moment  since 
To  stay  his  maddened  wife.     She  flung  herself 
Out  of  this  door,  crying  that  she  would  make 
Herself  a  shield  unto  ^Egisthus.    He 
Already  had  fled  the  palace. 

Pyl.  Durst  he  then 

Show  himself  in  the  sight  of  Argos  ?    Why, 
Then  he  is  slain  ere  this !     Happy  the  man 
That  struck  him  first.     Nearer  and  louder  yet 
I  hear  their  yells. 

El.  "  Orestes  !"    Ah,  were  't  so  ! 

Pyl.  Look  at  him  in  his  fury  where  he  comes  1 


86  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Enter  ORESTES  and  his  followers. 

Or.  No  man  of  you  attempt  to  slay  JEgisthus: 
There  is  no  wounding  sword  here  save  my  own. 
j3i!gisthus,  ho  !     Where  art  thou,  coward !    Speak ! 
./Egisthus,  where  art  thou  ?     Come  forth  :  it  is 
The  voice  of  Death  that  calls  thee!    Thou  comest  not? 
Ah,  villain,  dost  thou  hide  thyself?    In  vain: 
The  midmost  deep  of  Erebus  should  not  hide  thee! 
Thou  shalt  soon  see  if  I  be  Atrides'  son. 

El.  He  is  not  here ;  he  — 

Or.  Traitors  !    You  perchance 

Have  slain  him  without  me  ? 

Pyl.  Before  I  came 

He  had  fled  the  palace. 

Or.  In  the  palace  still 

Somewhere  he  lurks;  but  I  will  drag  him  forth; 
By  his  soft  locks  I  '11  drag  him  with  my  hand: 
There  is  no  prayer,  nor  god,  nor  force  of  hell 
Shall  snatch  thee  from  me.     I  will  make  thee  plow 
The  dust  with  thy  vile  body  to  the  tomb 
Of  Agamemnon, —  I  will  drag  thee  thither 
And  pour  out  there  all  thine  adulterous  blood. 

El.  Orestes,  dost  thou  not  believe  me?  —  me! 

Or.  Who'rt  thou?    I  want  ^Egisthus. 

El.  He  is  fled. 

Or.  He's  fled,   and  you,  ye  wretches,  linger  here? 
But  I  will  find  him. 

Enter  CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Cly.  Oh,  have  pity,  son! 

Or.  Pity?  Whose  son  am  I?   Atrides'  son 
Am  I. 

Cly.  ^Egisthus,  loaded  with  chains  — 

Or.  He  lives  yet? 

0  joy!    Let  me  go  slay  him! 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  87 

Cly.  Nay,  kill   me  ! 

I  slew  thy  father  —  I  alone,     ^gisthus 
Had  no  guilt  in  it. 

Or.  Who,  who  grips  my  arm ! 

Who  holds  me  back?    0  madness!    Ah,  ^Egisthus! 
I  see  him;  they  drag  him  hither —    Off  with  thee! 

Cly.  Orestes,  dost  thou  not  know  thy  mother? 

Or.  Die, 

^Egisthus!     By  Orestes'  hand,  die,  villain!  [Exit. 

Cly.  Ah,  thou'st  escaped  me!     Thou  shalt  slay  me 
first!  [Exit. 

El.  Pylades,  go!   Run,  run!   Oh,  stay  her!   fly; 
Bring  her  back  hither!  [Exit  PYLADES. 

I  shudder!    She  is  still 

His  mother,  and  he  must  have  pity  on  her. 
Yet  only  now  she  saw  her  children  stand 
Upon  the  brink  of  an  ignoble  death; 
And  was  her  sorrow  and  her  daring  then 
As  great  as  they  are  now  for  him?   At  last 
The  day  so  long  desired  has  come ;  at  last, 
Tyrant,  thou  diest;  and  once  more  I  hear 
The  palace  all  resound  with  wails  and  cries, 
As  on  that  horrible  and  bloody  night, 
Which  was  my  father's  last,  I  heard  it  ring. 
Already  hath  Orestes  struck  the  blow, 
The  mighty  blow;  already  is  JEgisthus 
Fallen  —  the  tumult  of  the  crowd  proclaims  it. 
Behold  Orestes  conqueror,  his  sword 
Dripping  with  blood! 

Enter  ORESTES. 

O  brother  mine,  oh  come, 
Avenger  of  the  king  of  kings,  our  father, 
Argos,  and  me,  come  to  my  heart! 


88  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Or.  Sister, 

At  last  thou  seest  me  Atrides'  worthy  son. 
Look,  't  is  .^Egisthus'  blood!     I  hardly  saw  him 
And  ran  to  slay  him  where  he  stood,  forgetting 
To  drag  him  to  our  father's  sepulcher. 
Full   twice    seven   times   I   plunged  and   plunged  my 

sword 

Into  his  cowardly  and  quaking  heart ; 
Yet  have  I  slaked  not  my  long  thirst  of  vengeance ! 

El.  Then  Clytemnestra  did  not  come  in  time 
To  stay  thine  arm? 

Or.  And  who  had  been  enough 

For  that?    To  stay  my  arm?    I  hurled  myself 
Upon  him ;  not  more  swift  the  thunderbolt. 
The  coward  wept,  and  those  vile  tears  the  more 
Filled  me  with  hate.     A  man  that  durst  not  die 
Slew  thee,  my  father! 

El.  Now  is  our  sire  avenged ! 

Calm  thyself  now,  and  tell  me,  did  thine  eyes 
Behold  not  Pylades? 

Or.  I  saw  ^Egisthus; 

None  other.     Where  is  dear  Pylades  ?    And  why 
Did  he  not  second  me  in  this  glorious  deed? 

El.  I  had  confided  to  his  care  our  mad 
And  desperate  mother. 

Or.  I  knew  nothing  of  them. 


Enter  PYLADES. 
El.   See,    Pylades   returns — 0   heavens,   what   do   I 


Returns  alone? 

Or.  And  sad?    Oh  wherefore  sad, 

Part  of  myself,  art  thou?    Know'st  not  I  've  slain 
Yon  villain?    Look,  how  with  his  life-blood  yet 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  89 

My  sword  is  dripping!    Ah,  thou  did'st  not  share 
His  death-blow  with  me !    Feed  then  on  this  sight 
Thine  eyes,  my  Pylades! 

Pyl.  0  sight!     Orestes, 

Give  me  that  sword. 

Or.  And  wherefore? 

Pyl.  Give  it  me. 

Or.   Take  it. 

Pyl.  Oh  listen  !     We  may  not  tarry  longer 

Within  these  borders  j   come  — 

Or.  But  what— 

El.  Oh  speak! 

Where's  Clytemnestra  ? 

Or.  Leave  her;   she  is  perchance 

Kindling  the  pyre  unto  her  traitor  husband. 

Pyl.   Oh,  thou  hast  far  more  than  fulfilled  thy  ven 
geance. 
Come,  now,  and  ask  no  more. 

Or.  What  dost  thou  say? 

El.  Our  mother !     I  beseech  thee  yet  again ! 
Pylades —    Oh  what  chill  is  this  that  creeps 
Through  all  my  veins'? 

Pyl.  The  heavens — 

El.  Ah,  she  is  dead! 

Or.   Hath  turned  her  dagger,  maddened,  on  herself? 

El.  Alas,   Pylades!     Why  dost  thou  not  answer1? 

Or.   Speak !    What  hath  been  ? 

Pyl.  Slain  — 

Or.  And  by  whose  hand? 

Pyl.  Come ! 

El.   (To  ORESTES.)     Thou  slewest  her! 

Or.  I  parricide? 

Pyl.  Unknowing 

Thou  plungedst  in  her  heart  thy  sword,  as  blind 
With  rage  thou  rannest  on  ^gisthus — 


90  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Or.  Oh, 

What  horror  seizes  me!     I  parricide? 
My  sword!     Pylades,  give  it  me;    I  '11  have  it  — 

Pyl.   It  shall  not  be. 

El.  Brother— 

Or.  Who  calls  me  brother? 

Thou,  haply,  impious  wretch,  thou  that  didst  save  me 
To  life  and  matricide?     Give  me  my  sword! 
My  sword!     0  fury!     Where  am  I?     What  is  it 
That  I  have   done?     Who   stays  me?      Who   follows 

me? 

Ah,  whither  shall  I  fly,  where  hide  myself?  — 
0  father,  dost  thou  look  on  me  askance? 
Thou  wouldst  have  blood  of  me,  and  this  is  blood ; 
For  thee  alone — for  thee  alone  I  shed  it! 

El.   Orestes,  Orestes — miserable  brother! 
He  hears  us  not!   ah,  he  is  mad!     Forever, 
Pylades,  we  must  go  beside  him. 

Pyl.  Hard, 

Inevitable  law  of  ruthless  Fate ! 


IV 


ALFIERI  himself  wrote  a  critical  comment  on 
each  of  his  tragedies,  discussing  their  qualities  and 
the  question  of  their  failure  or  success  dispassion 
ately  enough.  For  example,  he  frankly  says  of  his 
Maria  Stuarda  that  it  is  the  worst  tragedy  he  ever 
wrote,  and  the  only  one  that  lie  could  wish  not  to 
have "  written ;  of  his  Agamennone,  that  all  the 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  91 

good  in  it  came  from  the  author  and  all  the  bad 
from  the  subject  j  of  his  Fillippo  II.,  that  it  may 
make  a  very  terrible  impression  indeed  of  mingled 
pity  and  horror,  or  that  it  may  disgust,  through 
the  cold  atrocity  of  Philip,  even  to  the  point  of 
nausea.  On  the  Orestes,  we  may  very  well  consult 
him  more  at  length.  He  declares:  "  This  tragic 
action  has  no  other  motive  or  development,  nor 
admits  any  other  passion,  than  an  implacable  re 
venge;  but  the  passion  of  revenge  (though  very 
strong  by  nature),  having  become  greatly  enfee 
bled  among  civilized  peoples,  is  regarded  as  a  vile 
passion,  and  its  effects  are  wont  to  be  blamed  and 
looked  upon  with  loathing.  Nevertheless,  when  it 
is  just,  when  the  offense  received  is  very  atrocious, 
when  the  persons  and  the  circumstances  are  such 
that  no  human  law  can  indemnify  the  aggrieved 
and  punish  the  aggressor,  then  revenge,  under  the 
names  of  war,  invasion,  conspiracy,  the  duel,  and 
the  like,  ennobles  itself,  and  so  works  upon  our 
minds  as  not  only  to  be  endured  but  to  be  admira 
ble  and  sublime." 

In  his  Orestes  he  confesses  that  he  sees  much  to 
praise  and  very  little  to  blame :  "  Orestes,  to  my 
thinking,  is  ardent  in  sublime  degree,  and  this  dar 
ing  character  of  his,  together  with  the  perils  he  con 
fronts,  may  greatly  diminish  in  him  the  atrocity  and 
coldness  of  a  meditated  revenge.  .  .  .  Let  those 
who  do  not  believe  in  the  force  of  a  passion  for  high 
and  just  revenge  add  to  it,  in  the  heart  of  Orestes, 
private  interest,  the  love  of  power,  rage  at  behold 
ing  his  natural  heritage  occupied  by  a  murderous 


92  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

usurper,  and  then  they  will  have  a  sufficient  reason 
for  all  his  fury.  Let  them  consider,  also,  the  fero 
cious  ideas  in  which  he  must  have  been  nurtured  by 
Strophius,  king  of  Phocis,  the  persecutions  which 
he  knows  to  have  been  everywhere  moved  against 
him  by  the  usurper, — his  being,  in  fine,  the  son  of 
Agamemnon,  and  greatly  priding  himself  thereon, — 
and  all  these  things  will  certainly  account  for  the 
vindictive  passion  of  Orestes.  .  .  .  Clytemnestra  is 
very  difficult  to  treat  in  this  tragedy,  since  she  must 
be  here, 

Now  wife,  now  mother,  never  wife  nor  mother, 

which  is  much  easier  to  say  in  a  verse  than  to  man 
age  in  the  space  of  five  acts.  Yet  I  believe  that 
Clytemnestra,  through  the  terrible  remorse  she 
feels,  the  vile  treatment  which  she  receives  from 
^Egisthus,  and  the  awful  perplexity  in  which  she 
lives  .  .  .  will  be  considered  sufficiently  punished 
by  the  spectator.  ^Egisthus  is  never  able  to  elevate 
his  soul $  ...  he  will  always  be  an  unpleasing,  vile, 
and  difficult  personage  to  manage  well ;  a  character 
that  brings  small  praise  to  the  author  when  made 
sufferable,  and  much  blame  if  not  made  so.  ...  I 
believe  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  would  produce  the 
highest  effect  on  the  stage  if  well  represented.  In 
the  fifth,  there  is  a  movement,  a  brevity,  a  rapidly 
operating  heat,  that  ought  to  touch,  agitate,  and 
singularly  surprise  the  spirit.  So  it  seems  to  me, 
but  perhaps  it  is  not  so." 

This  analysis  is  not  only  very  amusing  for  the 
candor  with  which  Alfieri  praises  himself,  but  it 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  93 

is  also  remarkable  for  the  justice  with  which  the 
praise  is  given,  and  the  strong,  conscious  hold  which 
it  shows  him  to  have  had  upon  his  creations.  It 
leaves  one  very  little  to  add,  but  I  cannot  help  say 
ing  that  I  think  the  management  of  Clytemnestra 
especially  admirable  throughout.  She  loves  ^Egis- 
thus  with  the  fatal  passion  which  no  scorn  or 
cruelty  on  his  part  can  quench ;  but  while  he  is  in 
power  and  triumphant,  her  heart  turns  tenderly  to 
her  hapless  children,  whom  she  abhors  as  soon  as 
his  calamity  comes ;  then  she  has  no  thought  but 
to  save  him.  She  can  join  her  children  in  hating 
the  murder  which  she  has  herself  done  on  Aga 
memnon,  but  she  cannot  avenge  it  on  ^Egisthus, 
and  thus  expiate  her  crime  in  their  eyes.  J^gis- 
thus  is  never  able  to  conceive  of  the  unselfishness 
of  her  love ;  he  believes  her  ready  to  betray  him 
when  danger  threatens  and  to  shield  herself  be 
hind  him  from  the  anger  of  the  Argives;  it  is  a 
deep  knowledge  of  human  nature  that  makes  him 
interpose  the  memory  of  her  unatoned-for  crime 
between  her  and  any  purpose  of  good. 

Orestes  always  sees  his  revenge  as  something 
sacred,  and  that  is  a  great  scene  in  which  he  offers 
his  dagger  to  Clytemnestra  and  bids  her  kill  ^Dgis- 
thus  with  it>  believing  for  the  instant  that  even  she 
must  exult  to  share  his  vengeance.  His  feeling  to 
wards  J^gisthus  never  changes;  it  is  not  revolting 
to  the  spectator,  since  Orestes  is  so  absolutely 
unconscious  of  wrong  in  putting  him  to  death. 
He  shows  his  blood-stained  sword  to  Pylades  with 
a  real  sorrow  that  his  friend  should  not  also  have 


94  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

enjoyed  the  rapture  of  killing  the  usurper.  His 
story  of  his  escape  on  the  night  of  Agamemnon's 
murder  is  as  simple  and  grand  in  movement  as 
that  of  figures  in  an  antique  bas-relief.  Here  and 
/  elsewhere  one  feels  how  Alfieri  does  not  paint,  but 
sculptures  his  scenes  and  persons,  cuts  their  out 
lines  deep,  and  strongly  carves  their  attitudes  and 
expression. 

Electra  is  the  worthy  sister  of  Orestes,  and  the 
family  likeness  between  them  is  sharply  traced. 
She  has  all  his  faith  in  the  sacredness  of  his  pur 
pose,  while  she  has,  woman-like,  a  far  keener  and 
more  specific  hatred  of  JBgisthus.  The  ferocity  of 
her  exultation  when  Clytemnestra  and  ^Egisthus 
upbraid  each  other  is  terrible,  but  the  picture  she 
draws  for  Orestes  of  their  mother's  life  is  touched 
with  an  exquisite  filial  pity.  She  seems  to  me 
studied  with  marvelous  success. 

The  close  of  the  tragedy  is  full  of  fire  and  life,  yet 
never  wanting  in  a  sort  of  lofty,  austere  grace,  that 
lapses  at  last  into  a  truly  statuesque  despair.  Ores 
tes  mad,  with  Electra  and  Pylades  on  either  side : 
it  is  the  attitude  and  gesture  of  Greek  sculpture,  a 
group  forever  fixed  in  the  imperishable  sorrow  of 
stone. 

In  reading  Alfieri,  I  am  always  struck  with  what 
I  may  call  the  narrowness  of  his  tragedies.  They 
have  height  and  depth,  but  not  breadth.  The 
range  of  sentiment  is  as  limited  in  any  one  of 
them  as  the  range  of  phrase  in  this  Orestes,  where 
the  recurrence  of  the  same  epithets,  horrible, 
bloody,  terrible,  fatal,  awful,  is  not  apparently 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  95 

felt  by  the  poet  as  monotonous.  Four  or  five  per 
sons,  each  representing  a  purpose  or  a  passion, 
occupy  the  scene,  and  obviously  contribute  by 
every  word  and  deed  to  the  advancement  of  the 
tragic  action ;  and  this  narrowness  and  rigidity  of 
intent  would  be  intolerable,  if  the  tragedies  were 
not  so  brief :  I  do  not  think  any  of  them  is  much 
longer  than  a  single  act  of  one  of  Shakespeare's 
plays.  They  are  in  all  other  ways  equally  unlike 
Shakespeare's  plays.  When  you  read  Macbeth  or 
Hamlet,  you  find  yourself  in  a  world  where  the 
interests  and  passions  are  complex  and  divided 
against  themselves,  as  they  are  here  and  now. 
The  action  progresses  fitfully,  as  events  do  in  life ; 
it  is  promoted  by  the  things  that  seem  to  retard  it ; 
and  it  includes  long  stretches  of  time  and  many 
places.  When  you  read  Orestes,  you  find  yourself 
attendant  upon  an  imminent  calamity,  which  noth 
ing  can  avert  or  delay.  In  a  solitude  like  that  of 
dreams,  those  hapless  phantasms,  dark  types  of  re 
morse,  of  cruel  ambition,  of  inexorable  revenge, 
move  swiftly  on  the  fatal  end.  They  do  not  grow 
or  develop  on  the  imagination  5  their  character  is 
stamped  at  once,  and  they  have  but  to  act  it  out. 
There  is  no  lingering  upon  episodes,  no  digressions, 
no  reliefs.  They  cannot  stir  from  that  spot  where 
they  are  doomed  to  expiate  or  consummate  their 
crimes  5  one  little  day  is  given  them,  and  then  all 
is  over. 

Mr.  Lowell,  in  his  essay  on  Dryden,  speaks  of 
"  a  style  of  poetry  whose  great  excellence  was  that 
it  was  in  perfect  sympathy  with  the  genius  of  the 


96  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

people  among  whom  it  came  into  being/'  and  this 
I  conceive  to  be  the  virtue  of  the  Alfierian  poetry. 
The  Italians  love  beauty  of  form,  and  we  Goths 
love  picturesque  effect;  and  Alfieri  has  little  or 
none  of  the  kind  of  excellence  which  we  enjoy. 
But  while 

I  look  and  own  myself  a  happy  Goth, 

I  have  moods,  in  the  presence  of  his  simplicity  and 
severity,  when  I  feel  that  he  and  all  the  classicists 
may  be  right.  When  I  see  how  much  he  achieves 
with  his  sparing  phrase,  his  sparsely  populated 
scene,  his  narrow  plot  and  angular  design,  when  I 
find  him  perfectly  sufficient  in  expression  and  en 
tirely  adequate  in  suggestion,  the  Classic  alone 
appears  elegant  and  true — till  I  read  Shakespeare 
again ;  or  till  I  turn  to  Nature,  whom  I  do  not  find 
sparing  or  severe,  but  full  of  variety  and  change 
and  relief,  and  yet  having  a  sort  of  elegance  and 
truth  of  her  own. 

In  the  treatment  of  historical  subjects  Alfieri  al 
lowed  himself  every  freedom.  He  makes  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici,  a  brutal  and  very  insolent  tyrant,  a 
tyrant  after  the  high  Roman  fashion,  a  tyrant 
almost  after  the  fashion  of  the  late  Edwin  Forrest. 
Yet  there  are  some  good  passages  in  the  Congiura 
dei  Pazzi,  of  the  peculiarly  hard  Alfierian  sort: 

An  enemy  insulted  and  not  slain  ! 

What  breast  in  triple  iron  armed,  but  needs 

Must  tremble  at  him  ? 

is  a  saying  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici,  who,  when  asked 
if  he  does  not  fear  one  of  the  conspirators,  puts  the 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  97 

whole  political  wisdom  of  the  sixteenth  century  into 

his  answer, — 

(i  *-'  AT  Y 
Being  feared,  I  fear. 

The  Filippo  of  Alfieri  must  always  have  an  inter-  x^ 
est  for  English  readers  because  of  its  chance  rela 
tion  to  Keats,  who,  sick  to  death  of  consumption, 
bought  a  copy  of  Alfieri  when  on  his  way  to  Rome. 
As  Mr.  Lowell  relates  in  his  sketch  of  the  poet's  life, 
the  dying  man  opened  the  book  at  the  second  page, 
and  read  the  lines — perhaps  the  tenderest  that 
Alfieri  ever  wrote — 

Misero  me  !  sollievo  a  me  non  resta 
Altro  che  il  pianto,  e  il  pianto  e  delitto ! 

Keats  read  these  words,  and  then  laid  down  the 
book  and  opened  it  no  more.  The  closing  scene  of 
the  fourth  act  of  this  tragedy  can  well  be  studied 
as  a  striking  example  of  Alfieri's  power  of  con 
densation. 

Some  of  the  non-political  tragedies  of  Alfieri  are 
still  played ;  Eistori  has  played  his  Mirra,  and  Sal- 
vini  his  Saul  ;  but  I  believe  there  is  now  no  Italian 
critic  who  praises  him  so  entirely  as  Giudici  did. 
Yet  the  poet  finds  a  warm  defender  against  the 
French  and  German  critics  in  De  Sanctis,*  a  very 
clever  and  brilliant  Italian,  who  accounts  for  Alfieri 
in  a  way  that  helps  to  make  all  Italian  things  more 
intelligible  to  us.  He  is  speaking  of  Alfieri's  epoch 
and  social  circumstances:  "Education  had  been 

*  Saggi  Critiei.  Di  Francesco  de  Sanctis.  Napoli :  Antonio 
Morano.  1859. 


98  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

classic  for  ages.  Our  ideal  was  Rome  and  Greece, 
our  heroes  Brutus  and  Cato,  our  books  Livy,  Taci 
tus,  and  Plutarch;  and  if  this  was  true  of  all 
Europe,  how  much  more  so  of  Italy,  where  this 
history  might  be  called  domestic,  a  thing  of  our 
own,  a  part  of  our  traditions,  still  alive  to  the  eye 
in  our  cities  and  monuments.  From  Dante  to 
Machiavelli,  from  Machiavelli  to  Metastasio,  our 
classical  tradition  was  never  broken.  ...  In  the 
social  dissolution  of  the  last  century,  all  disap 
peared  except  this  ideal.  In  fact,  in  that  first 
enthusiasm,  when  the  minds  of  men  confidently 
sought  final  perfection,  it  passed  from  the  schools 
into  life,  ruled  the  imagination,  inflamed  the  will. 
People  lived  and  died  Romanly.  .  .  .  The  situa 
tions  that  Alfieri  has  chosen  in  his  tragedies  have 
a  visible  relation  to  the  social  state,  to  the  fears 
I  and  to  the  hopes  of  his  own  time.  It  is  always 
resistance  to  oppression,  of  man  against  man,  of 
people  against  tyrant.  ...  In  the  classicism  of 
Alfieri  there  is  no  positive  side.  It  is  an  ideal 
Rome  and  Greece,  outside  of  time  and  space,  float 
ing  in  the  vague,  .  .  .  which  his  contemporaries 
filled  up  with  their  own  life." 

Giuseppe  Arnaud,  in  his  admirable  criticisms  on 
the  Patriotic  Poets  of  Italy,  has  treated  of  the  lit 
erary  side  of  Alfieri  in  terms  that  seem  to  me,  on 
the  whole,  very  just :  "  He  sacrificed  the  foreshort 
ening,  which  has  so  great  a  charm  for  the  spectator, 
to  the  sculptured  full  figure  that  always  presents 
itself  face  to  face  with  you,  and  in  entire  relief. 
The  grand  passions,  which  are  commonly  sparing 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  99 

of  words,  are  in  his  system  condemned  to  speak 
much,  and  to  explain  themselves  too  much.  .  .  . 
To  what  shall  we  attribute  that  respectful  som 
nolence  which  nowadays  reigns  over  the  audience 
during  the  recitation  of  Alfieri's  tragedies,  if  they 
are  not  sustained  by  some  theatrical  celebrity? 
You  will  certainly  say,  to  the  mediocrity  of  the 
actors.  But  I  hold  that  the  tragic  effect  can  be 
produced  even  by  mediocre  actors,  if  this  effect 
truly  abounds  in  the  plot  of  the  tragedy.  ...  I 
know  that  these  opinions  of  mine  will  not  be 
shared  by  the  great  majority  of  the  Italian  public, 
and  so  be  it.  The  contrary  will  always  be  favora 
ble  to  one  who  greatly  loved  his  country,  always 
desired  to  serve  her,  and  succeeded  in  his  own 
time  and  own  manner.  Whoever  should  say  that 
Alfieri's  tragedies,  in  spite  of  many  eminent  merits, 
were  constructed  on  a  theory  opposed  to  grand 
scenic  effects  and  to  one  of  the  two  bases  of  trag 
edy,  namely,  compassion,  would  certainly  not  say 
what  was  far  from  the  truth.  And  yet,  with  all 
this,  Alfieri  will  still  remain  that  dry,  harsh  blast 
which  swept  away  the  noxious  miasms  with  which 
the  Italian  air  was  infected.  He  will  still  remain 
that  poet  who  aroused  his  country  from  its  dishon 
orable  slumber,  and  inspired  its  heart  with  intoler 
ance  of  servile  conditions  and  with  regard  for  its 
dignity.  Up  to  his  time  we  had  bleated,  and  he 
roared."  "In  fact,"  says  D'Azeglio,  "one  of  the 
merits  of  that  proud  heart  was  to  have  found  Italy 
Metastasian  and  left  it  Alfierian;  and  his  first  and 
greatest  merit  was,  to  my  thinking,  that  he  discov- 


100  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

ered  Italy,  so  to  speak,  as  Columbus  discovered 
America,  and  initiated  the  idea  of  Italy  as  a  nation. 
I  place  this  merit  far  beyond  that  of  his  verses  and 
his  tragedies." 

Besides  his  tragedies,  Alfieri  wrote,  as  I  have 
already  stated,  some  comedies  in  his  last  years ;  but 
I  must  own  my  ignorance  of  all  six  of  them  •  and 
he  wrote  various  satires,  odes,  sonnets,  epigrams, 
and  other  poems.  Most  of  these  are  of  political 
interest;  the  Miso-Gallo  is  an  expression  of  his 
scorn  and  hatred  of  the  French  nation  ;  the  America 
Liberata  celebrates  our  separation  from  England ; 
the  Btruria  Vendicata  praises  the  murder  of  the 
abominable  Alessandro  de'  Medici  by  his  kinsman, 
Lorenzaccio.  None  of  the  satires,  whether  on  kings, 
aristocrats,  or  people,  have  lent  themselves  easily 
to  my  perusal;  the  epigrams  are  signally  unread 
able,  but  some  of  the  sonnets  are  very  good.  He 
seems  to  find  in  their  limitations  the  same  sort  of 
strength  that  he  finds  in  his  restricted  tragedies; 
and  they  are  all  in  the  truest  sense  sonnets. 

Here  is  one,  which  loses,  of  course,  by  translation. 
In  this  and  other  of  my  versions,  I  have  rarely 
found  the  English  too  concise  for  the  Italian,  and 
often  not  concise  enough: 

.  HE   IMAGINES  THE   DEATH  OF  HIS  LADY. 

The  sad  bell  that  within  my  bosom  aye 
Clamors  and  bids  me  still  renew  my  tears, 

Doth  stun  my  senses  and  my  soul  bewray 
With  wandering  fantasies  and  cheating  fears ; 


VITTORIO    ALFIERI.  101 

The  gentle  form  of  her  that  is  but  ta'en 

A  little  from  my  sight  I  seem  to  see 
At  life's  bourne  lying  faint  and  pale  with  pain, — 

My  love  that  to  these  tears  abandons  me. 
"0  my  own  true  one,"  tenderly  she  cries, 

"  I  grieve  for  thee,  love,  that  thou  winnest  naught 
Save  hapless  life  with  all  thy  many  sighs." 

Life?       Never!        Though   thy   blessed   steps  have 

taught 

My  feet  the  path  in  all  well-doing,  stay !  — 
At  this  last  pass  't  is  mine  to  lead  the  way. 

There  is  a  still  more  characteristic  sonnet  of 
Alfieri's,  with  which  I  shall  close,  as  I  began,  in  the 
very  open  air  of  his  autobiography : 

HIS  .PORTRAIT. 

Thou  mirror  of  veracious  speech  sublime, 

What  I  am  like  in  soul  and  body,  show: 
Red  hair, —  in  front  grown  somewhat  thin  with  time ; 

Tall  stature,  with  an  earthward  head  bowed  low; 
A  meager  form,  with  two  straight  legs  beneath; 

An  aspect  good ;   white  skin  with  eyes  of  blue ; 
A  proper  nose;   fine  lips  and  choicest  teeth; 

Face  paler  than  a  throned  king's  in  hue; 
Now  hard  and  bitter,  yielding  now  and  mild; 

Malignant  never,  passionate  alway, 
With  mind  and  heart  in  endless  strife  embroiled; 

Sad  mostly,  and  then  gayest  of  the  gay. 
Achilles  now,  Thersites  in  his  turn : 
Man,  art  thou  great  or  vile "?    Die  and  thou  'It  learn !       / 


VINCENZO  MONTI  AND  UGK)  FOSCOLO 


THE  period  of  Vincenzo  Monti  and  Ugo  Foscolo 
is  that  covered  in  political  history  by  the  events  of 
the  French  revolution,  the  French  invasion  of  Italy 
and  the  Napoleonic  wars  there  against  the  Austri- 
ans,  the  establishment  of  the  Cisalpine  Republic 
and  of  the  kingdom  of  Italy,  the  final  overthrow 
of  the  French  dominion,  and  the  restoration  of 
the  Austrians.  During  all  these  events,  the  city  of 
Milan  remained  the  literary  as  well  as  the  political 
center  of  Italy,  and  whatever  were  the  moral  re 
forms  wrought  by  the  disasters  of  which  it  was 
also  the  center,  there  is  no  doubt  that  intellectually 
a  vast  change  had  taken  place  since  the  days  when 
Parini's  satire  was  true  concerning  the  life  of  the 
Milanese  nobles.  The  transformation  of  national 
character  by  war  is  never,  perhaps,  so  immediate 
or  entire  as  we  are  apt  to  expect.  When  our  own 
war  broke  out,  those  who  believed  that  we  were 
to  be  purged  and  ennobled  in  all  our  purposes  by 
calamity  looked  for  a  sort  of  total  and  instant  con 
version.  This,  indeed,  seemed  to  take  place,  but 
there  was  afterward  the  inevitable  reaction,  and  it 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  103 

appears  that  there  are  still  some  small  blemishes 
upon  our  political  and  social  state.  Yet,  for  all 
this,  each  of  us  is  conscious  of  some  vast  and  in 
estimable  difference  in  the  nation. 

It  is  instructive,  if  it  is  not  ennobling,  to  be 

I  moved  by  great  and  noble  impulses,  to  feel  one's 
self  part  of  a  people,  and  to  recognize  country 
for  once  as  the  supreme  interest ;  and  these  were 
the  privileges  the  French  revolution  gave  the  Ital 
ians.  It  shed  their  blood,  and  wasted  their  treas 
ure,  and  stole  their  statues  and  pictures,  but  it  bade 
them  believe  themselves  men;  it  forced  them  to. 
think  of  Italy  as  a  nation,  and  the  very  tyranny  in 
wliich  it  ended  was  a  realization  of  unity,  and  more 

\  to  "be  desired  a  thousand  times  than  the  shameless 
tranquillity  in  which  it  had  found  them.  It  is 
imaginable  that  when  the  revolution  advanced  upon 
Milan  it  did  not  seem  the  greatest  and  finest  thing 
in  life  to  serve  a  lady;  when  the  battles  of  Mareugo 
and  Lodi  were  fought,  and  Mantua  was  lost  and 
won,  to  court  one's  neighbor's  wife  must  have  ap 
peared  to  some  gentlemen  rather  a  waste  of  time ; 
when  the  youth  of  the  Italian  legion  in  Napoleon's 
campaign  perished  amidst  the  snows  of  Russia, 
their  brothers  and  sisters,  and  fathers  and  mothers, 
must  have  found  intrigues  and  operas  and  fashions 
but  a  poor  sort  of  distraction.  By  these  terrible 
means  the  old  forces  of  society  were  destroyed,  not 
quickly,  but  irreparably.  The  cavaliere  servente 
was  extinct  early  in  this  century ;  and  men  and 
women  opened  their  eyes  upon  an  era  of  work,  the 
most  industrious  age  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 


104  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  change  took  place  slowly ;  much  of  the  mate 
rial  was  old  and  hopelessly  rotten  ;  but  in  the  new 
generation  the  growth  towards  better  and  greater 
things  was  more  rapid. 

Yet  it  would  not  be  well  to  conjure  up  too  heroic 
an  image  of  Italian  revolutionary  society :  we  know 
what  vices  fester  and  passions  rage  in  war-time, 
and  Italy  was  then  almost  constantly  involved  in 
war.  Intellectually,  men  are  active,  but  the  great 
poems  are  not  written  in  war-time,  nor  the  highest 
effects  of  civilization  produced.  There  is  a  taint  of 
insanity  and  of  instability  in  everything,  a  mark  of 
f  everishness  and  haste  and  transition.  The  revolu 
tion  gave  Italy  a  chance  for  new  life,  but  this  was 
the  most  the  revolution  could  do.  It  was  a  great 
gift,  not  a  perfect  one ;  and  as  it  remained  for  the 
Italians  .to  improve  the  opportunity,  they  did  it 
partially,  fitfully,  as  men  do  everything. 


IT 


THE  poets  who  belong  to  this  time  are  numerous 
enough,  but  those  best  known  are  Vincenzo  Monti 
and  Ugo  Foscolo.  These  men  were  long  the  most 
conspicuous  literati  in  the  capital  of  Lombardy, 
but  neither  was  Lombard.  Monti  was  educated 
in  the  folds  of  Arcadia  at  Rome  j  Foscolo  was  a 


VINCENZO  MONTI  AND  UGO  FOSCOLO,     105 

native  of  one  of  the  Greek  islands  dependent  on 
Venice,  and  passed  his  youth  and  earlier  manhood 
in  the  lagoons.  The  accident  of  residence  at  Milan 
brought  the  two  men  together,  and  made  friends 
of  those  who  had  naturally  very  little  in  common. 
They  can  only  be  considered  together  as  part  of 
the  literary  history  of  the  time  in  which  they  both 
happened  to  be  born,  and  as  one  of  its  most  strik 
ing  contrasts. 

In  1802,  Napoleon  bestowed  a  republican  consti 
tution  on  Lombardy  and  the  other  provinces  of 
Italy  which  had  been  united  under  the  name  of  the 
Cisalpine  Republic,  and  Milan  became  the  capital 
of  the  new  state.  Thither  at  once  turned  all  that 
was  patriotic,  hopeful,  and  ambitious  in  Italian 
life ;  and  though  one  must  not  judge  this  phase  of 
Italian  civilization  from  Vincenzo  Monti,  it  is  an 
interesting  comment  on  its  effervescent,  unstable, 
fictitious,  and  partial  nature  that  he  was  its  most 
conspicuous  poet.  Few  men  appear  so  base  as 
Monti ;  but  it  is  not  certain  that  he  was  of  more 
fickle  and  truthless  soul  than  many  other  contem 
plative  and  cultivated  men  of  the  poetic  temper 
ament  who  are  never  confronted  with  exigent 
events,  and  who  therefore  never  betray  the  vast 
difference  that  lies  between  the  ideal  heroism  of 
the  poet's  vision  and  the  actual  heroism  of  occa 
sion.  We  all  have  excellent  principles  until  we 
are  tempted,  and  it  was  Monti's  misfortune  to  be 
born  in  an  age  which  put  his  principles  to  the  test, 
with  a  prospect  of  more  than  the  usual  prosperity 
in  reward  for  servility  and  compliance,  and  more 

5* 


106  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

than  the  usual  want,  suffering,  and  danger  in  pun 
ishment  of  candor  and  constancy. 

He  was  born  near  Ferrara  in  1754 ;  and  having 
early  distinguished  himself  in  poetry,  he  was  con 
ducted  to  Rome  by  the  Cardinal-Legate  Borghesi. 
At  Rome  he  entered  the  Arcadian  fold  of  course, 
and  piped  by  rule  there  with  extraordinary  accept 
ance,  and  might  have  died  a  Shepherd  but  for  the 
French  Revolution,  which  broke  out  and  gave 
him  a  chance  to  be  a  Man.  The  secretary  of  the 
French  Legation  at  Naples,  appearing  in  Rome 
with  the  tri-color  of  the  Republic,  was  attacked  by 
the  foolish  populace,  and  killed;  and  Monti,  the 
petted  and  caressed  of  priests,  the  elegant  and 
tuneful  young  poet  in  the  train  of  Cardinal  Bor 
ghesi,  seized  the  event  of  Ugo  Bassville's  death,  and 
turned  it  to  epic  account.  In  the  moment  of  dis 
solution,  Bassville,  repenting  his  republicanism, 
receives  pardon ;  but,  as  a  condition  of  his  accept 
ance  into  final  bliss,  he  is  shown,  through  several 
cantos  of  terza  rima,  the  woes  which  the  Revolu 
tion  has  brought  upon  France  and  the  world. 
The  bad  people  of  the  poem  are  naturally  the 
French  Revolutionists ;  the  good  people,  those 
who  hate  them.  The  most  admired  episode  is  that 
descriptive  of  poor  Louis  XVI.'s  ascent  into  heaven 
from  the  scaffold. 

There  is  some  reason  to  suppose  that  Monti  was 
sincerer  in  this  poem  than  in  any  other  of  political 
bearing  which  he  wrote ;  and  the  Dantesque  plan 
of  the  work  gave  it,  with  the  occasional  help  of 
Dante's  own  phraseology  and  many  fine  turns  of 


VINCENZO   MONTI. 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  107 

expression  picked  up  in  the  course  of  a  multifarious 
read  in  g,  a  dignity  from  which  the  absurdity  of  the 
apotheosis  of  priests  and  princes  detracted  nothing 
among  its  readers.  At  any  rate,  it  was  received  by 
Arcadia  with  rapturous  acclaim,  though  its  theme 
was  not  the  Golden  Age ;  and  on  the  Bassvilliana  the 
little  that  is  solid  in  Monti's  fame  rests  at  this  day. 
His  lyric  poetry  is  seldom  quoted  j  his  tragedies 
are  no  longer  played,  not  even  his  Galeoto  Man- 
fredi,  in  which  he  has  stolen  almost  enough  from 
Shakespeare  to  vitalize  one  of  the  characters. 
After  a  while  the  Romans  wearied  of  their  idol, 
and  began  to  attack  him  in  politics  and  literature  j 
and  in  1797  Monti,  after  a  sojourn  of  twenty  years 
in  the  Papal  capital,  fled  from  Rome  to  Milan. 
Here  he  was  assailed  in  one  of  the  journals  by  a 
fanatical  Neapolitan,  who  had  also  written  a  Bass 
villiana,  but  with  celestial  powers,  heroes  and  mar 
tyrs  of  French  politics,  and  who  now  accused  Monti 
of  enmity  to  the  rights  of  man.  Monti  responded 
by  a  letter  to  this  poet,  in  which  he  declared  that 
his  Bassvilliana  was  no  expression  of  his  own  feel 
ings,  but  that  he  had  merely  written  it  to  escape 
the  fury  of  Bassville's  murderers,  who  were  in 
censed  against  him  as  Bassville's  friend !  But  for 
all  this  the  Bassvilliana  was  publicly  burnt  before 
the  cathedral  in  Milan,  and  Monti  was  turned  out 
of  a  government  place  he  had  got,  because  "  he  had 
published  books  calculated  to  inspire  hatred  of 
democracy,  or  predilection  for  the  government  of 
kings,  of  theocrats  and  aristocrats."  The  poet  was 
equal  to  this  exigency;  and  he  now  reprinted  his 


108  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

works,  and  made  them  praise  the  French  and  the 
revolutionists  wherever  they  had  blamed  them 
before;  all  the  bad  systems  and  characters  were 
depicted  as  monarchies  and  kings  and  popes, 
instead  of  anarchies  and  demagogues.  Bonaparte 
was  exalted,  and  poor  Louis  XVI.,  sent  to  heaven 
with  so  much  ceremony  in  the  Bassvilliana,  was 
abased  in  a  later  ode  on  Superstition. 

Monti  was  amazed  that  all  this  did  not  suffice  "  to 
overcome  that  fatal  combination  of  circumstances 
which  had  caused  him  to  be  judged  as  the  courtier 
of  despotism."  "  How  gladly,"  he  writes,  "  would 
I  have  accepted  the  destiny  which  envy  could  not 
reach !  But  this  scourge  of  honest  men  clings  to 
my  flesh,  and  I  cannot  hope  to  escape  it,  except  I 
turn  scoundrel  to  become  fortunate  !  n  When  the 
Austrians  returned  to  Milan,  the  only  honest  man 
unhanged  in  Italy  fled  with  other  democrats  to 
Paris,  whither  the  fatal  combination  of  circum 
stances  followed  him,  and  caused  him  to  be  looked 
on  with  coldness  and  suspicion  by  the  republicans. 
After  Bonaparte  was  made  First  Consul,  Monti 
invoked  his  might  against  the  Germans  in  Italy, 
and  carried  his  own  injured  virtue  back  to  Milan 
in  the  train  of  the  conqueror.  When  Bonaparte 
was  crowned  emperor,  this  democrat  and  patriot 
was  the  first  to  hail  and  glorify  him  j  and  the  em 
peror  rewarded  the  poet's  devotion  with  a  chair 
in  the  University  of  Pavia,  and  a  pension  attached 
to  the  place  of  Historiographer.  Monti  accepted 
the  honors  and  emoluments  due  to  long-suffering 
integrity  and  inalterable  virtue,  and  continued  in 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  109 

the  enjoyment  of  them  till  the  Austrians  came 
back  to  Milan  a  second  time,  in  1815,  when  his 
chaste  muse  was  stirred  to  a  new  passion  by  the 
charms  of  German  despotism,  and  celebrated  as 
"the  wise,  the  just,  the  best  of  kings,  Francis  Au 
gustus/'  who,  if  one  were  to  believe  Monti,  "in 
war  was  a  whirlwind  and  in  peace  a  zephyr."  But 
the  heavy  Austrian,  who  knew  he  was  nothing  of 
the  kind,  thrust  out  his  surly  under  lip  at  these 
blandishments,  said  that  this  muse's  favors  were 
mercenary,  and  cut  off  Monti's  pension.  Stung  by 
such  ingratitude,  the  victim  of  his  own  honesty 
retired  forever  from  courts,  and  thenceforward 
sang  only  the  merits  of  rich  persons  in  private 
station,  who  could  afford  to  pay  for  spontaneous 
and  incorruptible  adulation.  He  died  in  1826, 
having  probably  endured  more  pain  and  run 
greater  peril  in  his  desire  to  avoid  danger  and 
suffering  than  the  bravest  and  truest  man  in  a 
time  when  courage  and  truth  seldom  went  in  com 
pany.  It  is  not  probable  that  he  thought  himself 
despicable  or  other  than  unjustly  wretched. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  not  so  greatly  to 
blame.  As  De  Sanctis  subtly  observes :  "  He  was 
always  a  liberal.  How  not  be  liberal  in  those  days 
when  even  the  reactionaries  shouted  for  liberty 
—  of  course,  true  liberty,  as  they  called  it  ?  And  in 
that  name  he  glorified  all  governments.  .  .  .  And  it 
was  not  with  hypocrisy.  ...  He  was  a  man  who 
would  have  liked  to  reconcile  the  old  and  the  new 
ideas,  all  opinions,  yet,  being  forced  to  choose,  he 
clung  to  the  majority,  with  no  desire  to  play  the 


MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

martyr.  So  lie  became  the  secretary  of  the  domi 
nant  feeling,  the  poet  of  success.  Kindly,  tolerant, 
sincere,  a  good  friend,  a  courtier  more  from  neces 
sity  and  weakness  than  perversity  or  wickedness ; 
if  he  could  have  retired  into  his  own  heart,  he 
might  have  come  out  a  poet." 

Monti,  in  fact,  was  always  an  improvvisatore, 
and  the  subjects  which  events  cast  in  his  way  were 
like  the  themes  which  the  improvvisatore  receives 
from  his  audience.  He  applied  his  poetic  faculty 
to  their  celebration  with  marvelous  facility,  and, 
doubtless,  regarded  the  results  as  rhetorical  feats. 
His  poetry  was  an  art,  not  a  principle ;  and  per 
haps  he  was  really  surprised  when  people  thought 
him  in  earnest,  and  held  him  personally  to  ac 
count  for  what  he  wrote.  "A  man  of  sensation, 
rather  than  sentiment,"  says  Arnaud,  "  Monti  cared 
only  for  the  objective  side  of  life.  He  poured 
out  melodies,  colors,  and  chaff  in  the  service  of 
all  causes;  he  was  the  poet-advocate,  the  Siren 
of  the  Italian  Parnassus."  Of  course  such  a  man 
instinctively  hated  the  ideas  of  the  Romantic 
school,  and  he  contested  their  progress  in  litera 
ture  with  great  bitterness.  He  believed  that  poetry 
meant  feigning,  not  making ;  and  he  declared  that 
"the  hard  truth  was  the  grave  of  the  beautiful." 
The  latter  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  futile 
battle  with  the  "  audacious  boreal  school "  and  in 
noxious  revival  of  the  foolish  old  disputes  of  the 
Italian  grammarians ;  and  Emiliani- Grind ici  con 
demns  him  for  having  done  more  than  any  enemy 
of  his  country  to  turn  Italian  thought  from  questions 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  Ill 

of  patriotic  interest  to  questions  of  philology,  from 
the  unity  of  Italy  to  the  unity  of  the  language, 
from  the  usurpations  and  tyranny  of  Austria  to 
the  assumptions  of  Delia  Crusca.  But  Monti  could 
scarcely  help  any  cause  which  he  espoused ;  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  he  was  as  well  employed  in  dis 
puting  the  claims  of  the  Tuscan  dialect  to  be  con 
sidered  the  Italian  language  as  he  would  have  been 
in  any  other  way.  The  wonderful  facility,  no  less 
than  the  unreality,  of  the  man  appears  in  many 
things,  but  in  none  more  remarkably  than  his 
translation  of  Homer,  which  is  the  translation  uni 
versally  accepted  and  approved  in  Italy.  He  knew 
little  more  than  the  Greek  alphabet,  and  produced 
his  translation  from  the  preceding  versions  in 
Latin  and  Italian,  submitting  the  work  to  the 
correction  of  eminent  scholars  before  he  printed 
it.  His  poems  fill  many  volumes ;  and  all  display 
the  ease,  perspicuity,  and  obvious  beauty  of  the 
improvvisatore.  From  a  fathomless  memory,  he 
drew  felicities  which  had  clung  to  it  in  his  vast 
reading,  and  gave  them  a  new  excellence  by  the  art 
with  which  he  presented  them  as  new.  The  com 
monplace  Italians  long  continued  to  speak  awfully 
of  Monti  as  a  great  poet,  because  the  commonplace 
mind  regards  everything  established  as  great.  He 
is  a  classic  of  those  classics  common  to  all  lan 
guages  —  dead  corpses  which  retain  their  forms 
perfectly  in  the  coffin,  but  crumble  to  dust  as  soon 
as  exposed  to  the  air. 


112  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Ill 

FROM  the  Bassvilliana  I  have  translated  the 
passage  descriptive  of  Louis  XVI.'s  ascent  to 
heaven ;  and  I  offer  this,  perhaps  not  quite  justly, 
in  illustration  of  what  I  have  been  saying  of 
Monti  as  a  poet.  There  is  something  of  his  curious 
verbal  beauty  in  it,  and  his  singular  good  luck  of 
phrase,  with  his  fortunate  reminiscences  of  other 
poets ;  the  collocation  of  the  different  parts  is 
very  comical,  and  the  application  of  it  all  to  Louis 
XVI.  is  one  of  the  most  preposterous  things  in 
literature.  But  one  must  remember  that  the  poor 
king  was  merely  a  subject,  a  theme,  with  the  poet. 

•  i     As  when  the  sun  uprears  himself  among 

The  lesser  dazzling  substances,  and  drives 
His  eager  steeds  along  the  fervid  curve, — 

When  in  one  only  hue  is  painted  all 

The  heavenly  vault,  and  every  other  star 

Is  touched  with  pallor  and  doth  veil  its  front, 

So  with  sidereal  splendor  all  aflame 
Amid  a  thousand  glad  souls  following, 
High  into  heaven  arose  that  beauteous  soul. 

Smiled,  as  he  passed  them,  the  majestical, 
Tremulous  daughters  of  the  light,  and  shook 
Their  glowing  and  dewy  tresses  as  they  moved. 

He  among  all  with  longing  and  with  love 
Beaming,  ascended  until  he  was  come 
Before  the  triune  uncreated  life ; 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  113 

There  his  flight  ceases,  there  the  heart,  become 
Aim  of  the  threefold  gaze  divine,  is  stilled, 
And  all  the  urgence  of  desire  is  lost; 

There  on  his  temples  he  receives  the  crown 
Of  living  amaranth  immortal,  on 
His  cheek  the  kiss  of  everlasting  peace. 

And  then  were  heard  consonances  and  notes 
Of  an  ineffable  sweetness,  and  the  orbs 
Began  again  to  move  their  starry  wheels. 

More  swiftly  yet  the  steeds  that  bore  the  day 
Exulting  flew,  and  with  their  mighty  tread, 
Did  beat  the  circuit  of  their  airy  way. 

In  this  there  are  three  really  beautiful  lines; 
namely,  those  which  describe  the  arrival  of  the 
spirit  in  the  presence  of  God: 

There  his  flight  ceases,  there  the  heart,  become 
Aim  of  the  threefold  gaze  divine,  is  stilled, 
And  all  the  urgence  of  desire  is  lostj 

Or,  as  it  stands  in  the  Italian : 

Ivi  queta  il  suo  vol,  ivi  s'appunta 
In  tre  sguardi  beata,  ivi  il  cor  tace, 
E  tutta  perde  del  desio  la  punta. 

It  was  the  fortune  of  Monti,  as  I  have  said,  to  sing 
all  round  and  upon  every  side  of  every  subject,  and 
he  was  governed  only  by  knowledge  of  which  side 
was  for  the  moment  uppermost.  If  a  poem  attacked 
the  French  when  their  triumph  seemed  doubtful, 
the  offending  verses  were  erased  as  soon  as  the 


114  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

French  conquered,  and  the  same  poem  unblush- 
ingly  exalted  them  in  a  new  edition  5 — now  religion 
and  the  Church  were  celebrated  in  Monti's  song, 
now  the  goddess  of  Reason  and  the  reign  of  liberty  ; 
the  Pope  was  lauded  in  Rome,  and  the  Inquisition 
was  attacked  in  Milan ;  England  was  praised  whilst 
Monti  was  in  the  anti-French  interest,  and  as  soon 
as  the  poet  could  turn  his  coat  of  many  colors,  the 
sun  was  urged  to  withdraw  from  England  the 
small  amount  of  light  and  heat  which  it  vouch 
safed  the  foggy  island  ;  and  the  Rev.J3enry  Boyd, 
who  translated  the  Bassvilliana  into  our  tongue, 
must  have  been  very  much  dismayed  to  find  this 
eloquent  foe  of  revolutions  assailing  the  hereditary 
enemy  of  France  in  his  next  poem,  and  uttering 
the  hope  that  she  might  be  surrounded  with  waves 
of  blood  and  with  darkness,  and  shaken  with 
earthquakes.  But  all  this  was  nothing  to  Monti's 
treatment  of  the  shade  of  poor  King  Louis  XVI. 
We  have  seen  with  how  much  ceremony  the  poet 
ushered  that  unhappy  prince  into  eternal  bliss,  and 
in  Mr.  Boyd's  translation  of  the  Bassvilliana,  we 
can  read  the  portents  with  which  Monti  makes  the 
heavens  recognize  the  crime  of  his  execution  in 
Paris. 

Then  from  their  houses,  like  a  billowy  tide, 
Men  rush  enfrenzied,  and,  from  every  breast 
Banished  shrinks  Pity,  weeping,  terrified. 
Now  the  earth  quivers,  trampled  and  oppressed 
By  wheels,  by  feet  of  horses  and  of  men; 
The  air  in  hollow  moans  speaks  its  unrest; 
Like  distant  thunder's  roar,  scarce  within  ken, 


VINCENZO  MONTI  AND  -UGO  FOSCOLO.     115 

Like  the  hoarse  murmurs  of  the  midnight  surge, 
Like  the  north  wind  rushing  from  its  far-off  den. 

Through  the  dark  crowds  that  round  the  scaffold  flock 
The  monarch  see  with  look  and  gait  appear 
That  might  to  soft  compassion  melt  a  rock; 
Melt  rocks,  from  hardest  flint  draw  pity's  tear, — 
But  not  from  Gallic  tigers  j  to  what  fate, 
Monsters,  have  ye  brought  him  who  loved  you  dear  ? 

It  seems  scarcely  possible  that  a  personage  so 
flatteringly  attended  from  the  scaffold  to  the  very 
presence  of  the  Trinity,  could  afterward  have  been 
used  with  disrespect  by  the  same  master  of  cere 
monies  ;  yet  in  his  Ode  on  Superstition,  Monti  has 
later  occasion  to  refer  to  the  French  monarch  in 
these  terms : 

\      The  tyrant  has  fallen.    Ye  peoples 

Oppressed,  rise!     Nature  breathes  freely. 
Proud  kings,  bow  before  them  and  tremble; 
Yonder  crumbles  the  greatest  of  thrones ! 
(Repeat.)  There  was  stricken  the  vile  perjurer  Capet, 

(He  will  only  give  Louis  his  family  name !) 

Who  had  worn  out  the  patience  of  God! 
In  that  pitiless  blood  dip  thy  fingers, 
France,  delivered  from  fetters  unworthy! 
'T  is  blood  sucked  from  the  veins  of  thy  children 
Whom  the  despot  has  cruelly  wronged ! 
O  freemen  to  arms  that  are  flying, 
Bathe,  bathe  in  that  blood  your  bright  weapons, 
Triumph  rests  'mid  the  terror  of  battle 
Upon  swords  that  have  smitten  a  king! 


116  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

This,  every  one  must  allow,  was  a  very  unhand 
some  way  of  treating  an  ex-martyr,  but  at  the  time 
Monti  wrote  he  was  in  Milan,  in  the  midst  of  most 
revolutionary  spirits,  and  he  felt  obliged  to  be 
rude  to  the  memory  of  the  unhappy  king.  After 
all,  probably  it  did  not  hurt  the  king  so  much  as 
the  poet. 


IV 


THE  troubled  life  of  Ugo  Foscolo  is  a  career  alto 
gether  wholesomer  than  Monti's  to  contemplate. 
There  is  much  of  violence,  vanity,  and  adventure 
in  it,  to  remind  of  Byron  j  but  Foscolo  had  neither 
the  badness  of  Byron's  heart  nor  the  greatness  of 
his  talent.  He  was,  moreover,  a  better  scholar  and 
a  man  of  truer  feeling.  Coming  to  Venice  from 
Zante,  in  1793,  he  witnessed  the  downfall  of  a  sys 
tem  which  Venetians  do  not  yet  know  whether  to 
lament  or  execrate  ;  and  he  was  young  and  gener 
ous  enough  to  believe  that  Bonaparte  really  meant 
to  build  up  a  democratic  republic  on  the  ruins  of 
the  fallen  oligarchy.  Foscolo  had  been  one  of  the 
popular  innovators  before  the  Republic  perished, 
and  he  became  the  secretary  of  the  provisional 
government,  and  was  greatly  beloved  by  the  peo 
ple.  It  is  related  that  they  were  so  used  to  his 
voice,  and  so  fond  of  hearing  it,  that  one  day,  when 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  117 

they  heard  another  reading  in  his  place,  they  be 
came  quite  turbulent,  till  the  president  called  out 
with  that  deliciously  caressing  Venetian  familiarity, 
PopolOj  ste  cheto  ;  Foscolo  xe  rocMo  !  u  People,  be 
quiet  5  Foscolo  is  hoarse."  While  in  this  office,  he 
brought  out  his  first  tragedy,  which  met  with  great 
success ;  and  at  the  same  time  Napoleon  played  the 
cruel  farce  with  which  he  had  beguiled  the  Vene 
tians,  by  selling  them  to  Austria,  at  Campo-Formio. 
Foscolo  then  left  Venice,  and  went  to  Milan,  where 
he  established  a  patriotic  journal,  in  which  a  gen 
uine  love  of  country  found  expression,  and  in 
which  he  defended  u  a  worthy  Monti  against  the 
attacks  of  the  red  republicans.  He  also  defended 
the  Latin  language,  when  the  legislature,  which 
found  time  in  a  season  of  great  public  peril  and 
anxiety  to  regulate  philology,  fulminated  a  decree 
against  that  classic  tongue  ;  and  he  soon  afterward 
quitted  Milan,  in  despair  of  the  Republic's  future. 
He  had  many  such  fits  of  disgust,  and  in  one  of 
them  he  wrote  that  the  wickedness  and  shame  of 
Italy  were  so  great,  that  they  could  never  be  effaced 
till  the  two  seas  covered  her.  There  was  fighting 
in  those  days,  for  such  as  had  stomach  for  it,  in 
every  part  of  Italy ;  and  Foscolo,  being  enrolled  in 
the  Italian  Legion,  was  present  at  the  battle  of 
Cento,  and  took  part  in  the  defense  of  Genoa,  but 
found  time,  amid  all  his  warlike  occupations,  for 
literature.  He  had  written,  in  the  flush  of  youth 
ful  faith  and  generosity,  an  ode  to  Bonaparte 
Liberator;  and  he  employed  the  leisure  of  the 
besieged  in  republishing  it  at  Genoa,  affixing  to 


118  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

the  verses  a  reproach  to  Napoleon  for  the  treaty 
of  Campo-Formio,  and  menacing  him  with  a  Taci 
tus.  He  returned  to  Milan  after  the  battle  of 
Marengo,  but  his  enemies  procured  his  removal 
to  Boulogne,  whither  the  Italian  Legion  had  been 
ordered,  and  where  Foscolo  cultivated  his  knowl 
edge  of  English  and  his  hatred  of  Napoleon.  After 
travel  in  Holland  and  marriage  with  an  English 
woman  there,  he  again  came  back  to  Milan,  which 
he  found  full  as  ever  of  folly,  intrigue,  baseness, 
and  envy.  Leaving  the  capital,  says  Arnaud,  "  he 
took  up  his  abode  on  the  hills  of  Brescia,  and  for 
two  weeks  was  seen  wandering  over  the  heights, 
declaiming  and  gesticulating.  The  mountaineers 
thought  him  mad.  One  morning  he  descended  to 
the  city  with  the  manuscript  of  the  Sepolcri.  It 
was  in  1807.  Not  Jena,  not  Friedland,  could  dull 
the  sensation  it  imparted  to  the  Italian  republic 
of  letters." 


IT  is  doubtful  whether  this  poem,  which  Giudici 
calls  the  sublimest  lyrical  composition  modern  liter 
ature  has  produced,  will  stir  the  English  reader  to 
enthusiastic  admiration.  The  poem  is  of  its  age  — 
declamatory,  ambitious,  eloquent ;  but  the  ideas 
do  not  seem  great  or  new,  though  that,  perhaps,  is 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  119 

because  they  have  been  so  often  repeated  since.  De 
Sanetis  declares  it  the  "  earliest  lyrical  note  of  the 
new  literature,  the  affirmation  of  the  rehabilitated 
conscience  of  the  new  manhood.  A  law  of  the 
Republic  n  —  the  French  Republic  —  "  prescribed 
the  equality  of  men  before  death.  The  splendor 
of  monuments  seemed  a  privilege  of  the  nobles 
and  the  rich,  and  the  Republicans  contested  the 
privilege,  the  distinction  of  classes,  even  in  this 
form.  .  .  .  This  revolutionary  logic  driven  to  its 
ultimate  corollaries  clouded  the  poetry  of  life  for 
him.  ...  He  lacked  the  religious  idea,  but  the  sense 
of  humanity  in  its  progress  and  its  aims,  bound 
together  by  the  family,  the  state,  liberty,  glory — 
from  this  Foscolo  drew  his  harmonies,  a  new  relig 
ion  of  the  tomb."  .  .  . 

He  touches  in  it  on  the  funeral  usages  of  differ 
ent  times  and  peoples,  with  here  and  there  an 
episodic  allusion  to  the  fate  of  heroes  and  poets, 
and  disquisitions  on  the  aesthetic  and  spiritual 
significance  of  posthumous  honors.  The  most- 
admired  passage  of  the  poem  is  that  in  which  the 
poet  turns  to  the  monuments  of  Italy's  noblest 
dead,  in  the  church  of  Santa  Croce,  at  Florence : 

The  nrned  ashes  of  the  mighty  kindle 

The  great  soul  to  great  actions,  Pindemonte, 

And  fair  and  holy  to  the  pilgrim  make 

The  earth  that  holds  them.     When  I  saw  the  tomb 

Where  rests  the  body  of  that  great  one,*  who, 

*  Question  of  Machiavelli.  Whether  "  The  Prince  "  was 
written  in  earnest,  with  a  wish  to  serve  the  Devil,  or  in  irony, 
with  a  wish  to  serve  the  people,  is  still  in  dispute. 


120  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Tempering  the  scepter  of  the  potentate, 

Strips  off  its  laurels,  and  to  the  people  shows 

With  what  tears  it  doth  reek,  and  with  what  blood ; 

When  'I  beheld  the  place  of  him  who  raised 

A  new  Olympus  to  the  gods  in  Rome,*  — 

Of  him  f  who  saw  the  worlds  wheel  through  the  heights 

Of  heaven,  illumined  by  the  moveless  sun, 

And  to  the  Anglian  t  oped  the  skvev  ways 

He  swept  with  such  a  vast  ImoTtireless  wing, — 

O  happy  !§  I  cried,  in  thy  life-giving  air, 

And  in  the  fountains  that  the  Apennine 

Down  from  his  summit  pours  for  thee!     The  moon, 

Glad  in  thy  breath,  laps  in  her  clearest  light 

Thy  hills  with  vintage  laughing;  and  thy  vales, 

Filled  with  their  clustering  cots  and  olive-groves, 

Send  heavenward  th'  incense  of  a  thousand  flowers. 

And  thou  wert  first,  Florence,  to  hear  the  song 

With  which  the  Ghibelline  exile  charmed  his  wrath,  || 

And  thou  his  language  and  his  ancestry 

Gavest  that  sweet  lip  of  Calliope,  1T 

Who  clothing  on  in  whitest  purity 

Love  in  Greece  nude  and  nude  in  Rome,  again 

Restored  him  unto  the  celestial  Venus  j  — 

But  happiest  I  count  thee  that  thou  keep'st 

Treasured  beneath  one  temple-roof  the  glories 

Of  Italy, —  now  thy  sole  heritage, 

Since  the  ill-guarded  Alps  and  the  inconstant 

Omnipotence  of  human  destinies 

Have  rent  from  thee  thy  substance  and  thy  arms, 

Thy  altars,  country, —  save  thy  memories,  all. 

*  Michelangelo.  t  Galileo. 

\  Newton  §  Florence. 

||  It  is  the  opinion  of  many  historians  that  the  Divina  Corn- 
media  was  commenced  before  the  exile  of  Dante. —  Foscolo. 
11"  Petrarch  was  born  in  exile  of  Florentine  parents. — Ibid. 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  121 

Ah !  here,  where  yet  a  ray  of  glory  lingers, 
Let  a  light  shine  unto  all  generous  souls, 
And  be  Italia's  hope !    Unto  these  stojies 
Oft  came  Vittorio  *  for  inspiration, 
Wroth  to  his  country's  gods.     Dumbly  he  roved 
Where  Arno  is  most  lonely,  anxiously 
Brooding  upon  the  heavens  and  the  fields; 
Then  when  no  living  aspect  could  console, 
Here  rested  the  Austere,  upon  his  face 
Death's  pallor  and  the  deathless  light  of  hope. 
Here  with  these  great  he  dwells  for  evermore, 
His  dust  yet  quick  with  love  of  country.    Yes, 
A  god  speaks  to  us  from  this  sacred  peace, 
That  nursed  for  Persians  upon  Marathon, 
Where  Athens  gave  her  heroes  sepulture, 
Greek  ire  and  virtue.     There  the  mariner 
That  sailed  the  sea  under  Euboea  saw 
Flashing  amidst  the  wide  obscurity 
The  steel  of  helmets  and  of  clashing  brands, 
The  smoke  and  lurid  name  of  funeral  pyres, 
And  phantom  warriors,  clad  in  glittering  mail, 
Seeking  the  combat.     Through  the  silences 
And  horror  of  the  night,  along  the  field, 
The  tumult  of  the  phalanxes  arose, 
Mixing  itself  with  sound  of  warlike  tubes, 
And  clatter  of  the  hoofs  of  steeds,  that  rushed 
Trampling  the  helms  of  dying  warriors, — 
And  sobs,  and  hymns,  and  the  wild  Parcse's  songs !  f 

The  poem  ends  with  the  prophecy  that  poetry, 
after  time  destroys  the  sepulchers,  shall  preserve 

*  Alfieri.     So  Foscolo  saw  him  in  his  last  years. 

t  The  poet,  quoting  Pausanias,  says :  "  The  sepulture  of  the 
Athenians  who  fell  in  the  battle  took  place  on  the  plain  of 
Marathon,  and  there  every  night  is  heard  the  neighing  of  the 
steeds,  and  the  phantoms  of  the  combatants  appear." 
6 


122  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

the  memories  of  the  great  and  the  unhappy,  and 
invokes  the  shades  of  Greece  and  Troy  to  give  an 
illusion  of  sublimity  to  the  close.  The  poet  doubts 
if  there  be  any  comfort  to  the  dead  in  monu 
mental  stones,  but  declares  that  they  keep  mem 
ories  alive,  and  concludes  that  only  those  who 
leave  no  love  behind  should  have  little  joy  of  their 
funeral  urns.  He  blames  the  promiscuous  burial 
of  the  good  and  bad,  the  great  and  base ;  he  dwells 
on  the  beauty  of  the  ancient  cemeteries  and  the 
pathetic  charm  of  English  churchyards.  The  poem 
of  I  Sepolcri  has  peculiar  beauties,  yet  it  does  not 
seem  to  me  the  grand  work  which  the  Italians 
have  esteemed  it ;  though  it  has  the  pensive  charm 
which  attaches  to  all  elegiac  verse.  De  Sanctis 
attaches  a  great  political  and  moral  value  to  it. 
(i  T^  revolution,  in  the  horror  of  its  excesses, 
was  passing.  More  temperate  ideas  prevailed;  the 
need  of  a  moral  and  religious  restoration  was  felt. 
Foscolo's  poem  touched  these  chords  .  .  .  which 
vibrated  in  all  hearts." 

The  tragedies  of  Foscolo  are  little  read,  and  his 
unfinished  but  faithful  translation  of  Homer  did 
not  have  the  success  which  met  the  facile  para 
phrase  of  Monti.  His  other  works  were  chiefly 
critical,  and  are  valued  for  their  learning.  The  Ital 
ians  claim  that  in  his  studies  of  Dante  he  was  the 
first  to  reveal  him  to  Europe  in  his  political  char 
acter,  "  as  the  inspired  poet,  who  availed  himself 
of  art  for  the  civil  regeneration  of  the  people  speak 
ing  the  language  which  he  dedicated  to  supreme 
song  "  j  and  they  count  as  among  their  best  critical 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  123 

works,  Foscolo's  "  exquisite  essays  on  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio."  His  romance,  "  The  Last  Let 
ters  of  Jacopo  Ortis,"  is  a  novel  full  of  patriotism, 
suffering,  and  suicide,  which  found  devoted  read 
ers  among  youth  affected  by  "  The  Sorrows  of 
Werther,"  and  which  was  the  first  cry  of  Italian 
disillusion  with  the  French.  Yet  it  had  no  politi 
cal  effect,  De  Sanctis  says,  because  it  was  not  in 
accord  with  the  popular  hopefulness  of  the  time. 
It  was,  of  course,  wildly  romantic,  of  the  romantic 
sort  that  came  before  the  school  had  got  its  name, 
and  it  was  supposed  to  celebrate  one  of  Foscolo's 
first  loves.  He  had  a  great  many  loves,  first  and 
last,  and  is  reproached  with  a  dissolute  life  by  the 
German  critic,  Gervinius. 

He  was  made  Professor  of  Italian  Eloquence  at 
the  University  of  Pavia  in  1809;  but,  refusing  to 
flatter  Napoleon  in  his  inaugural  address,  his  pro 
fessorship  was  abolished.  When  the  Austrian  s 
returned  to  Milan,  in  1815,  they  offered  him  the 
charge  of  their  official  newspaper;  but  he  declined 
it,  and  left  Milan  for  the  last  time.  He  wandered 
homeless  through  Switzerland  for  a  while,  and  at 
last  went  to  London,  where  he  gained  a  livelihood 
by  teaching  the  Italian  language  and  lecturing  on 
its  literature;  and  where,  tormented  by  homesick 
ness  and  the  fear  of  blindness,  he  died,  in  1827. 
"Poverty  would  make  even  Homer  abject  in  Lon 
don,"  he  said. 

One  of  his  biographers,  however,  tells  us  that  he 
was  hospitably  welcomed  at  Holland  House  in 
London,  and  "  entertained  by  the  most  illustrious 


124  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

islanders;  but  the  indispensable  etiquette  of  the 
country,  grievous  to  all  strangers,  was  intolerable 
to  Foscolo,  and  he  soon  withdrew  from  these  elegant 
circles,  and  gave  himself  up  to  his  beloved  books." 
Like  Alneri,  on  whom  he  largely  modeled  his  liter 
ary  ideal,  and  whom  he  fervently  admired,  Foscolo 
has  left  us  his  portrait  drawn  by  himself,  which  the 
reader  may  be  interested  to  see. 

A  furrowed  brow,  with  cavernous  eyes  aglow; 

Hair  tawny ;   hollow  cheeks ;   looks  resolute  ; 
Lips  pouting,  but  to  smiles  and  pleasance  slow; 

Head  bowed,  neck  beautiful,  and  breast  hirsute; 
Limbs  shapely;   simple,  yet  elect,  in  dress; 

Eapid  my  steps,  my  thoughts,  my  acts,  my  tones ; 
Grave,  humane,  stubborn,  prodigal  to  excess; 

To  the  world  adverse,  fortune  me  disowns. 
Shame  makes  me  vile,  and  anger  makes  me  brave, 

Reason  in  me  is  cautious,  but  my  heart 
Doth,  rich  in  vices  and  in  virtues,  rave; 

Sad  for  the  most,  and  oft  alone,  apart ; 
Incredulous  alike  of  hope  and  fear, 
Death  shall  bring  rest  and  honor  to  my  bier. 

Cantu  thinks  that  Foscolo  succeeded,  by  imitating 
unusual  models,  in  seeming  original,  and  probably 
more  with  reference  to  the  time  in  which  he  wrote 
than  to  the  qualities  of  his  mind,  classes  him  with 
the  school  of  Monti.  Although  his  poetry  is  full  of 
mythology  and  classic  allusion,  the  use  of  the  well- 
worn  machinery  is  less  mechanical  than  in  Monti ; 
and  Foscolo,  writing  always  with  one  high  purpose, 
was  essentially  different  in  inspiration  from  the 
poet  who  merchandised  his  genius  and  sold  his 


UGO   FOSCOLO. 


VINCENZO    MONTI    AND    UGO    FOSCOLO.  125 

song  to  any  party  threatening  hard  or  paying  well. 
Foscolo  was  a  brave  man,  and  faithfully  loved 
freedom,  and  he  must  be  ranked  with  those  poets 
who,  in  later  times,  have  devoted  themselves  to  the 
liberation  of  Italy.  He  is  classic  in  his  forms,  but 
he  is  revolutionary,  and  he  hoped  for  some  ideal 
Athenian  liberty  for  his  country,  rather  than  the 
English  freedom  she  enjoys.  But  we  cannot  ven 
ture  to  pronounce  dead  or  idle  the  Greek  tradition, 
and  we  must  confess  that  the  romanticism  which 
brought  into  literary  worship  the  trumpery  pictur- 
esqueness  of  the  Middle  Ages  was  a  lapse  from 
generous  feeling. 


ALESSANDRO  MANZONI 


IT  was  not  till  the  turbulent  days  of  the  Napole 
onic  age  were  past,  that  the  theories  and  thoughts 
of  Romance  were  introduced  into  Italy.  When 
these  days  came  to  an  end,  the  whole  political 
character  of  the  peninsula  reverted,  as  nearly  as 
possible,  to  that  of  the  times  preceding  the  revolu 
tions.  The  Bourbons  were  restored  to  Naples,  the 
Pope  to  Rome,  the  Dukes  and  Grand  Dukes  to 
their  several  states,  the  House  of  Savoy  to  Pied 
mont,  and  the  Austrians  to  Venice  and  Lombardy ; 
and  it  was  agreed  among  all  these  despotic  gov 
ernments  that  there  was  to  be  no  Italy  save,  as 
Metternich  suggested,  in  a  geographical  sense. 
They  encouraged  a  relapse,  among  their  sub 
jects,  into  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  past,  and 
they  largely  succeeded.  But,  after  all,  the  age 
was  against  them;  and  people  who  have  once 
desired  and  done  great  things  are  slow  to  forget 
them,  though  the  censor  may  forbid  them  to  be 
named,  and  the  prison  and  the  scaffold  may  enforce 
his  behest. 

With  the  restoration  of  the  Austrians,  there  came 
a  tranquillity  to  Milan  which  was  not  the  apathy 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  127 

it  seemed.  It  was  now  impossible  for  literary 
patriotism  to  be  openly  militant,  as  it  had  been  in 
Alfieri  and  Foscolo,  but  it  took  on  the  retrospective 

I  phase  of  Romance,  and  devoted  itself  to  the  celebra 
tion  of  the  past  glories  of  Italy.  In  this  way  it  still 
fulfilled  its  educative  and  regenerative  mission. 
It  dwelt  on  the  victories  which  Italians  had  won 
in  other  days  over  their  oppressors,  and  it  tacitly 
reminded  them  that  they  were  still  oppressed  by 
foreign  governments;  it  portrayed  their  own  for 
mer  corruption  and  crimes,  and  so  taught  them 
the  virtues  which  alone  could  cure  the  ills  their 
vices  had  brought  upon  them.  Only  secondarily 
political,  and  primarily  moral,  it  forbade  the  Ital 
ians  to  hope  to  be  good  citizens  without  being 
good  men.  This  was  Romance  in  its  highest  office, 
as  Manzoni,  Grossi,  and  D'Azeglio  conceived  it. 
^sthetically,  the  new  school  struggled  to  over 
throw  the  classic  traditions ;  to  liberate  tragedy 

•  from  the  bondage  of  the  unities,  and  let  it  concern 
itself  with  any  tragical  incident  of  life  ;  to  give 
comedy  the  generous  scope  of  English  and  Span 
ish  comedy;  to  seek  poetry  in  the  common  expe 
riences  of  men  and  to  find  beauty  in  any  theme ; 
to  be  utterly  free,  un trammeled,  and  abundant ;  to 
be  in  literature  what  the  Gothic  is  in  architecture. 
It  perished  because  it  came  to  look  for  Beauty  only, 
and  all  that  was  good  in  it  became  merged  in  Real 
ism  which  looks  for  Truth. 

These  were  the  purposes  of  Romance,  and  the  mas 
ters  in  whom  the  Italian  Romanticists  had  studied 
them  were  the  great  German  and  English  poets. 


128  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  tragedies  of  Shakespeare  were  translated  and 
admired,  and  the  dramas  of  Schiller  were  repro 
duced  in  Italian  verse  j  the  poems  of  Byron  and  of 
Scott  were  made  known,  and  the  ballads  of  such 
lyrical  Germans  as  Burger.  But,  of  course,  so 
quick  and  curious  a  people  as  the  Italians  had 
been  sensitive  to  all  preceding  influences  in  the 
literary  world,  and  before  what  we  call  Romance 
came  in  from  Germany,  a  breath  of  nature  had 
already  swept  over  the  languid  elegance  of  Arcady 
from  the  northern  lands  of  storms  and  mists ;  and 
the  effects  of  this  are  visible  in  the  poetry  of 
Foscolo's  period. 

The  enthusiasm  with  which  Ossian  was  received 
in  France  remained,  or  perhaps  only  began,  after 
the  hoax  was  exploded  in  England.  In  Italy,  the 
misty  essence  of  the  Caledonian  bard  was  hailed  as 
a  substantial  presence.  The  king  took  his  spear, 
and  struck  his  deeply  sounding  shield,  as  it  hung 
on  the  willows  over  the  neatly  kept  garden-walks, 
and  the  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses  promenad 
ing  there  in  perpetual  vitteggiaf/ura  were  alarmed 
and  perplexed  out  of  a  composure  which  many 
noble  voices  had  not  been  able  to  move.  Emiliani- 
Giudici  declares  that  Melchiorre  Cesarotti,  a  pro 
fessor  in  the  University  of  Padua,  dealt  the  first 
blow  against  the  power  of  Arcadia.  This  pro 
fessor  of  Greek  made  the  acquaintance  of  George 
Sackville,  who  inflamed  him  with  a  desire  to  read 
;  Ossian's  poems,  then  just  published  in  England  5 
and  Cesarotti  studied  the  English  language  in 
order  to  acquaint  himself  with  a  poet  whom  he 
believed  greater  than  Homer.  He  translated  Mac- 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  129 

pherson  into  Italian  verse,  retaining,  however,  in 
extraordinary  degree,  the  genius  of  the  language 
in  which  he  found  the  poetry.  He  is  said  (for  I 
have  not  read  his  version)  to  have  twisted  the 
Italian  into  our  curt  idioms,  and  indulged  himself 
in  excesses  of  compound  words,  to  express  the 
manner  of  his  original.  He  believed  that  the 
Italian  language  had  become  "sterile,  timid,  and 
superstitious/'  through  the  fault  of  the  gramma 
rians:  and  in  adopting  the  blank  verse  for  his 
translation,  he  ventured  upon  new  forms,  and 
achieved  complete  popularity,  if  not  complete  suc 
cess.  "In  fact/'  says  Giudici,  "the  poems  of 
Ossian  were  no  sooner  published  than  Italy  was 
filled  with  uproar  by  the  new  methods  of  poetry, 
clothed  in  all  the  magic  of  magnificent  forms  till 
then  unknown.  The  Arcadian  flocks  were  thrown 
into  tumult,  and  proclaimed  a  crusade  against  Ces- 
arotti  as  a  subverter  of  ancient  order  and  a  mover 
of  anarchy  in  the  peaceful  republic — it  was  a  tyr 
anny,  and  they  called  it  a  republic — of  letters. 
Cesarotti  was  called  corrupter,  sacrilegious,  pro 
fane,  and  assailed  with  titles  of  obscene  contumely  j 
but  the  poems  of  Ossian  were  read  by  all,  and  the 
name  of  the  translator,  till  then  little  known, 
became  famous  in  and  out  of  Italy."  In  fine, 
Cesarotti  founded  a  school;  but,  blinded  by  his 
marvelous  success,  he  attempted  to  translate  Ho 
mer  into  the  same  fearless  Italian  which  had 
received  his  Ossian.  He  failed,  and  was  laughed  at. 
Ossian,  however,  remained  a  power  in  Italian  let 
ters,  though  Cesarotti  fell;  and  his  influence  was 

felt  for  romance  before  the  time  of  the  Romantic 
6* 


130  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

School.  Monti  imitated  him  as  he  found  him  in 
Italian  j  yet,  though  Monti's  verse  abounds,  like 
Ossian,  in  phantoms  and  apparitions,  they  are  not 
northern  specters,  but  respectable  shades,  classic, 
well-mannered,  orderly,  and  have  no  kinship  with 
anything  but  the  personifications,  Vice,  Virtue, 
Fear,  Pleasure,  and  the  rest  of  their  genteel  alle 
gorical  company.  Unconsciously,  however,  Monti 
had  helped  to  prepare  the  way  for  romantic  realism 
by  his  choice  of  living  themes.  Louis  XVI.,  though 
decked  in  epic  dignity,  was  something  that  touched 
and  interested  the  age;  and  Bonaparte,  even  in 
pagan  apotheosis,  was  so  positive  a  subject  that 
the  improvvisatore  acquired  a  sort  of  truth  and  sin 
cerity  in  celebrating  him.  Bonaparte  might  not 
be  the  Sun  he  was  hailed  to  be,  but  even  in  Monti's 
verse  he  was  a  soldier,  ambitious,  unscrupulous, 
irresistible,  recognizable  in  every  guise. 

In  Germany,  where  the  great  revival  of  romantic 
letters  took  place, —  where  the  poets  and  scholars, 
studying  their  own  Minnesingers  and  the  ballads 
of  England  and  Scotland,  reproduced  the  simplicity 
and  directness  of  thought  characteristic  of  young 
literatures, — the  life  as  well  as  the  song  of  the 
people  had  once  been  romantic.  But  in  Italy  there 
had  never  been  such  a  period.  The  people  were 
municipal,  mercantile;  the  poets  burlesqued  the 
tales  of  chivalry,  and  the  traders  made  money  out  of 
the  Crusades.  In  Italy,  moreover,  the  patriotic  in 
stincts  of  the  people,  as  well  as  their  habits  and 
associations,  were  opposed  to  those  which  fostered 
romance  in  Germany  j  and  the  poets  and  novelists, 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  131 

who  sought  to  naturalize  the  new  element  of  litera 
ture,  were  naturally  accused  of  political  friendship 
with  the  hated  Germans.  The  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  the  Romantic  School  at  Milan  were  very  great, 
and  it  may  be  questioned  if,  after  all,  its  disciples 
succeeded  in  endearing  to  the  Italians  any  form  of 
romantic  literature  except  the  historical  novel, 
which  came  from  England,  and  the  untrammeled 
drama,  which  was  studied  from  English  models. 
They  produced  great  results  for  good  in  Italian 
letters  j  but,  as  usual,  these  results  were  indirect, 
and  not  just  those  at  which  the  Romanticists  aimed. 

In  Italy  the  Romantic  School  was  not  so  sharply 
divided  into  a  first  and  second  period  as  in  Ger 
many,  where  it  was  superseded  for  a  time  by  the 
classicism  following  the  study  of  Winckelmann. 
Yet  it  kept,  in  its  own  way,  the  general  tendency 
of  German  literature.  For  the  "  Sorrows  of  Wer- 
.ther,"  the  Italians  had  the  "Last  Letters  of  Ja- 
copo  Ortis " ;  for  the  brood  of  poets  who  arose  in 
the  fatherland  to  defy  the  Revolution,  incarnate 
in  Napoleon,  with  hymn  and  ballad,  a  retrospect 
ive  national  feeling  in  Italy  found  the  same  chan 
nels  of  expression  through  the  Lombard  group  of 
lyrists  and  dramatists,  while  the  historical  romance 
flourished  as  richly  as  in  England,  and  for  a  much 
longer  season. 

De  Sanctis  studies  the  literary  situation  in  the 
concluding  pages  of  his  history;  they  are  almost 
the  most  brilliant  pages,  and  they  embody  a  con 
ception  of  it  so  luminous  that  it  would  be  idle  to 
pretend  to  offer  the  reader  anything  better  than  a 


132  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

resume  of  his  work.  The  revolution  had  passed 
away  under  the  horror  of  its  excesses;  more  tem 
perate  ideas  prevailed ;  the  need  of  a  religious  and 
moral  restoration  was  felt.  "  Foscolo  died  in  1827, 
and  Pellico,  Manzoni,  Grossi,  Berchet,  had  risen 
above  the  horizon.  The  Romantic  School,  'the 
audacious  boreal  school,'  had  appeared.  1815  is  a 
memorable  date.  ...  It  marks  the  official  mani 
festation  of  a  reaction,  not  only  political,  but  phil 
osophical  and  literary.  .  .  .  The  reaction  was  as 
rapid  and  violent  as  the  revolution.  .  .  .  The  white 
terror  succeeded  to  the  red." 

Our  critic  says  that  there  were  at  this  time  two 
enemies,  materialism  and  skepticism,  and  that  there 
rose  against  them  a  spirituality  carried  to  idealism, 
to  mysticism.  "  To  the  right  of  nature  was  opposed 
the  divine  right,  to  popular  sovereignty  legitimacy, 
to  individual  rights  the  State,  to  liberty  authority 
or  order.  The  middle  ages  returned  in  triumph. 
.  .  .  Christianity,  hitherto  the  target  of  all  offense, 
became  the  center  of  every  philosophical  investiga 
tion,  the  banner  of  all  social  and  religious  progress. 
.  .  .  The  criterions  of  art  were  changed.  There 
was  a  pagan  art  and  a  Christian  art,  whose  highest 
expression  was  sought  in  the  Gothic,  in  the  glooms, 
the  mysteries,  the  vague,  the  indefinite,  in  a  beyond 
which  w^as  called  the  ideal,  in  an  aspiration  towards 
the  infinite,  incapable  of  fruition  and  therefore  mel 
ancholy.  .  .  .  To  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  succeeded 
Chateaubriand,  De  Stael,  Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo, 
Lamennais.  And  in  1815  appeared  the  Sacred 
Hymns  of  the  young  Manzoni." 


ALE6SANDRO    MANZONI.  133 

The  Romantic  movement  was  as  universal  then 
as  the  Realistic  movement  is  now,  and  as  irresist 
ible.  It  was  the  literary  expression  of  monarchy 
*  and  aristocracy,  as  Realism  is  the  literary  expres 
sion  of  republicanism  and  democracy.  What  De 
Sanctis  shows  is  that  out  of  the  political  tempest 
absolutism  issued  stronger  than  ever,  that  the 
clergy  and  the  nobles,  once  its  rivals,  became  its 
creatures;  the  prevailing  bureaucracy  interested 
the  citizen  class  in  the  perpetuity  of  the  state,  but 
turned  them  into  office-seekers ;  the  police  became 
the  main-spring  of  power;  the  office-holder,  the 
priest  and  the  soldier  became  spies.  "  There  re 
sulted  an  organized  corruption  called  government, 
absolute  in  form,  or  under  a  mask  of  constitution 
alism.  .  .  .  Such  a  reaction,  in  violent  contradiction 
of  modern  ideas,  could  not  last."  There  were  out 
breaks  in  Spain,  Naples,  Piedmont,  the  Romagna ; 
Greece  and  Belgium  rose ;  legitimacy  fell ;  citizen- 
kings  came  in ;  and  a  long  quiet  followed,  in  which 
the  sciences  and  letters  flourished.  Even  in  Austria- 
ridden  Italy,  where  constitutionalism  was  impossi 
ble,  the  middle  class  was  allowed  a  part  in  the 
administration.  "  Little  by  little  the  new  and  the 
old  learned  to  live  together :  the  divine  right  and 
the  popular  will  were  associated  in  laws  and  writs. 
.  .  .  The  movement  was  the  same  revolution  as 
before,  mastered  by  experience  and  self -disciplined. 
.  .  .  Chateaubriand,  Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo,  La- 
meiinais,  Manzoni,  Grossi,  Pellico,  were  liberal  no 
less  than  Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  Alfieri  and  Fos- 
colo.  .  .  .  The  religious  sentiment,  too  deeply 


134  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

offended,  vindicated  itself ;  yet  it  could  not  escape 
from  the  lines  of  the  revolution  ...  it  was  a  reac 
tion  transmuted  into  a  reconciliation." 

The  literary  movement  was  called  Romantic  as 
against  the  old  Classicism  ;  medieval  and  Chris 
tian,  it  made  the  papacy  the  hero  of  its  poetry  ;  it 
abandoned  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity  for  national 
antiquity,  but  the  modern  spirit  finally  informed 
Romanticism  as  it  had  informed  Classicism  ;  Parini 
and  Manzoni  were  equally  modern  men.  Religion  is 
restored,  but,  "  it  is  no  longer  a  creed,  it  is  an  artistic 
motive.  ...  It  is  not  enough  that  there  are  saints, 
they  must  be  beautiful;  the  Christian  idea  returns  as 
art.  .  .  .  Providence  comes  back  to  the  world,  the 
miracle  re-appears  in  story,  hope  and  prayer  revive, 
the  heart  softens,  it  opens  itself  to  gentle  influences. 
.  .  .  Manzoni  reconstructs  the  ideal  of  the  Christian 
Paradise  and  reconciles  it  with  the  modern  spirit. 
Mythology  goes,  the  classic  remains;  the  eight 
eenth  century  is  denied,  its  ideas  prevail." 

The  pantheistic  idealism  which  resulted  pleased 
the  citizen-fancy;  the  notion  of  "evolution  suc 
ceeded  to  that  of  revolution ?' ;  one  said  civiliza 
tion,  progress,  culture,  instead  of  liberty.  "  Louis 
Philippe  realized  the  citizen  ideal.  .  .  .  The  problem 
was  solved,  the  skein  untangled.  God  might  rest. 
.  .  .  The  supernatural  was  not  believed,  but  it  was 
explained  and  respected.  One  did  not  accept  Christ 
as  divine,  but  a  human  Christ  was  exalted  to  the 
stars;  religion  was  spoken  of  with  earnestness, 
and  the  ministers  of  God  with  reverence." 

A  new  criticism  arose,  and  bade  literature  draw 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  135 

from  life,  while  a  vivid  idealism  accompanied  anx 
iety  for  historical  truth.  In  Italy,  where  the  liberals 
could  not  attack  the  governments,  they  attacked 
Aristotle,  and  a  tremendous  war  arose  between 
the  Eomanticists  and  the  Classicists.  The  former 
grouped  themselves  at  Milan  chiefly,  and  battled 
through  the  Conciliatore,  a  literary  journal  famous 
in  Italian  annals.  They  vaunted  the  English  and 
Germans ;  they  could  not  endure  mythology ;  they 
laughed  the  three  unities  to  scorn.  At  Paris  Man- 
zoni  had  imbibed  the  new  principles,  and  made 
friends  with  the  new  masters;  for  Goethe  and 
Schiller  he  abandoned  Alfieri  and  Monti.  "  Yet  if 
the  Romantic  School,  by  its  name,  its  ties,  its 
studies,  its  impressions,  was  allied  to  German  tra 
ditions  and  French  fashions,  it  was  at  bottom 
Italian  in  accent,  aspiration,  form,  and  motive.  .  .  . 
Every  one  felt  our  hopes  palpitating  under  the 
medieval  robe;  the  least  allusion,  the  remotest 
meanings,  were  caught  by  the  public,  which  was  in 
the  closest  accord  with  the  writers.  The  middle  ages 
were  no  longer  treated  with  historical  and  positive 
intention  j  they  became  the  garments  of  our  ideals, 
the  transparent  expression  of  our  hopes." 

It  is  this  fact  which  is  especially  palpable  in  Man- 
zoni's  work,  and  Manzoni  was  the  chief  poet  of  the 
Romantic  School  in  that  land  where  it  found  the 
most  realistic  development,  and  set  itself  seriously 
to  interpret  the  emotions  and  desires  of  the  nation. 
"When  these  were  fulfilled,  even  the  form  of  Roman 
ticism  ceased  to  be. 


136  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Ill 

ALESSANDRO  MANZONI  was  born  at  Milan  in 
1784,  and  inherited  from  his  father  the  title  of 
Count,  which  he  always  refused  to  wear ;  from  his 
mother,  who  was  the  daughter  of  Beccaria,  the 
famous  and  humane  writer  on  Crimes  and  Punish 
ments,  he  may  have  received  the  nobility  which 
his  whole  life  has  shown. 

In  his  youth  he  was  a  liberal  thinker  in  matters 
of  religion  5  the  stricter  sort  of  Catholics  used  to 
class  him  with  the  Voltaireans,  and  there  seems  to 
have  been  some  ground  for  their  distrust  of  his 
orthodoxy.  But  in  1808  he  married  Mile.  Louisa 
Henriette  Blondel,  the  daughter  of  a  banker  of 
Geneva,  who,  having  herself  been  converted  from 
Protestantism  to  the  Catholic  faith  on  coining  to 
Milan,  converted  her  husband  in  turn,  and  there 
after  there  was  no  question  concerning  his  religion. 
She  was  long  remembered  in  her  second  country 
"  for  her  fresh  blond  head,  and  her  blue  eyes,  her 
lovely  eyes,"  and  she  made  her  husband  very  happy 
while  she  lived.  The  young  poet  signalized  his  devo 
tion  to  his  young  bride,  and  the  faith  to  which  she 
restored  him,  in  his  Sacred  Hymns,  published  in 
this  devout  and  joyous  time.  But  Manzoni  was 
never  a  Catholic  of  those  Catholics  who  believed  in 
the  temporal  power  of  the  Pope.  He  said  to  Madam 
Colet,  the  author  of  "L7  Italie  des  Italiens,"  a  silly 
and  gossiping  but  entertaining  book,  "I  bow  hum 
bly  to  the  Pope,  and  the  Church  has  no  more  respect 
ful  son  j  but  why  confound  the  interests  of  earth  and 


ALESSANDRO   MANZONI. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  137 

those  of  heaven  ?  The  Roman  people  are  right  in 
asking  their  freedom — there  are  hours  for  nations, 
as  for  governments,  in  which  they  must  occupy 
themselves,  not  with  what  is  convenient,  but  with 
what  is  just.  Let  us  lay  hands  boldly  upon  the 
temporal  power,  but  let  us  not  touch  the  doctrine 
of  the  Church.  The  one  is  as  distinct  from  the 
other  as  the  immortal  soul  from  the  frail  and  mor 
tal  body.  To  believe  that  the  Church  is  attacked 
in  taking  away  its  earthly  possessions  is  a  real 
heresy  to  every  true  Christian." 

The  Sacred  Hymns  were  published  in  1815,  and 
in  1820  Manzoni  gave  the  world  his  first  tragedy,  H 
Conte  di  Carmagnola,  a  romantic  drama  written  in 
the  boldest  defiance  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place. 
He  dispensed  with  these  hitherto  indispensable  con 
ditions  of  dramatic  composition  among  the  Italians 
eight  years  before  Victor  Hugo  braved  their  tyr 
anny  in  his  Cromwell  j  and  in  an  introduction  to 
his  tragedy  he  gave  his  reasons  for  this  audacious 
innovation.  Following  the  Carmagnola,  in  1822, 
came  his  second  and  last  tragedy,  AdelcM.  In  the 
mean  time  he  had  written  his  magnificent  ode  on 
the  Death  of  Napoleon,  "  II  Cinque  Maggio,"  which 
was  at  once  translated  by  Goethe,  and  recognized 
by  the  French  themselves  as  the  last  word  on  the 
subject.  It  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  whole 
continental  Romantic  School. 

In  1825  he  published  his  romance,  "  I  Promessi 
Sposi,"  known  to  every  one  knowing  anything  of 
Italian,  and  translated  into  all  modern  languages. 
Besides  these  works,  and  some  earlier  poems,  Man- 


138  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

zoni  wrote  only  a  few  essays  upon  historical  and 
literary  subjects,  and  he  always  led  a  very  quiet 
and  uneventful  life.  He  was  very  fond  of  the 
country;  early  every  spring  he  left  the  city  for 
his  farm,  whose  labors  he  directed  and  shared.  His 
life  was  so  quiet,  indeed,  and  his  fate  so  happy,  in 
contrast  with  that  of  Pellico  and  other  literary  con 
temporaries  at  Milan,  that  he  was  accused  of  indif 
ference  in  political  matters  by  those  who  could  not 
see  the  subtler  tendency  of  his  whole  life  and  works. 
Marc  Monnier  says,  "  There  are  countries  where  it 
is  a  shame  not  to  be  persecuted,"  and  this  is  the 
only  disgrace  which  has  ever  fallen  upon  Manzoni. 
When  the  Austrians  took  possession  of  Milan, 
after  the  retirement  of  the  French,  they  invited  the 
patricians  to  inscribe  themselves  in  a  book  of  nobil 
ity,  under  pain  of  losing  their  titles,  and  Manzoni 
preferred  to  lose  his.  He  constantly  refused  hon 
ors  offered  him  by  the  Government,  and  he  sent 
back  the  ribbon  of  a  knightly  order  with  the 
answer  that  he  had  made  a  vow  never  to  wear  any 
decoration.  When  Victor  Emanuel  in  turn  wished 
to  do  him  a  like  honor,  he  held  himself  bound  by 
his  excuse  to  the  Austrians,  but  accepted  the  hon 
orary  presidency  of  the  Lombard  Institute  of 
Sciences,  Letters  and  Arts.  In  1860  he  was  elected 
a  Senator  of  the  realm;  he  appeared  in  order  to 
take  the  oath  and  then  he  retired  to  a  privacy  never 
afterwards  broken. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  139 

IV 

"  GOETHE'S  praise/'  says  a  sneer  turned  proverb, 
"is  a  brevet  of  mediocrity."  Manzoni  must  rest 
under  this  damaging  applause,  which  was  not  too 
freely  bestowed  upon  other  Italian  poets  of  his 
time,  or  upon  Italy  at  all,  for  that  matter. 

Goethe  could  not  laud  Manzoni's  tragedies  too 
highly  j  he  did  not  find  one  word  too  much  or  too 
little  in  them  5  the  style  was  free,  noble,  full  and 
rich.  As  to  the  religious  lyrics,  the  manner  of 
their  treatment  was  fresh  and  individual  although 
the  matter  and  the  significance  were  not  new ;  and 
the  poet  was  "  a  Christian  without  fanaticism,  a 
Roman  Catholic  without  bigotry,  a  zealot  without 
hardness." 

The  tragedies  had  no  success  upon  the  stage.  The 
Carmagnola  was  given  in  Florence  in  1828,  but  in 
spite  of  the  favor  of  the  court,  and  the  open  rancor 
of  the  friends  of  the  Classic  School,  it  failed;  at 
Turin,  where  the  Adelchi  was  tried,  Pellico  regretted 
that  the  attempt  to  play  it  had  been  made,  and  de 
plored  the  "  vile  irreverence  of  the  public." 

Both  tragedies  deal  with  patriotic  themes,  but 
they  are  both  concerned  with  occurrences  of 
remote  epochs.  The  time  of  the  Carmagnola  is  the 
fifteenth  century ;  that  of  the  Adelchi  the  eighth 
"century |  and  however  strongly  marked  are  the 
characters, —  and  they  are  very  strongly  marked, 
and  differ  widely  from  most  persons  of  Italian 
classic  tragedy  in  this  respect, —  one  still  feels  that 
they  are  subordinate  to  the  great  contests  of  ele- 


140  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

ments  and  principles  for  which  the  tragedy  fur 
nishes  a  scene.  In  the  Carmagnola  the  pathos  is 
chiefly  in  the  feeling  embodied  by  the  magnificent 
chorus  lamenting  the  slaughter  of  Italians  by  Ital 
ians  at  the  battle  of  Maclodio ;  in  the  Adelchi  we 
are  conscious  of  no  emotion  so  strong  as  that  we 
experience  when  we  hear  the  wail  of  the  Italian 
people,  to  whom  the  overthrow  of  their  Longobard 
oppressors  by  the  Franks  is  but  the  signal  of  a  new 
enslavement.  This  chorus  is  almost  as  fine  as  the 
more  famous  one  in  the  Carmagnola ;  both  are  incom 
parably  finer  than  anything  else  in  the  tragedies 
and  are  much  more  dramatic  than  the  dialogue.  It 
is  in  the  emotion  of  a  spectator  belonging  to  our 
own  time  rather  than  in  that  of  an  actor  of  those 
past  times  that  the  poet  shows  his  dramatic  strength ; 
and  whenever  he  speaks  abstractly  for  country  and 
humanity  he  moves  us  in  a  way  that  permits  no 
doubt  of  his  greatness. 

After  all,  there  is  but  one  Shakespeare,  and  in  the 
drama  below  him  Manzoni  holds  a  high  place.  The 
faults  of  his  tragedies  are  those  of  most  plays 
which  are  not  acting  plays,  and  their  merits  are 
much  greater  than  the  great  number  of  such  plays 
can  boast.  I  have  not  meant  to  imply  that  you 
want  sympathy  with  the  persons  of  the  drama,  but 
only  less  sympathy  than  with  the  ideas  embodied 
in  them.  There  are  many  affecting  scenes,  and  the 
whole  of  each  tragedy  is  conceived  in  the  highest 
and  best  ideal. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  141 


IN  the  Carmagnola,  the  action  extends  from  the 
moment  when  the  Venetian  Senate,  at  war  with  the 
Duke  of  Milan,  places  its  armies  under  the  com 
mand  of  the  count,  who  is  a  soldier  of  fortune  and 
has  formerly  been  in  the  service  of  the  Duke.  The 
Senate  sends  two  commissioners  into  his  camp  to 
represent  the  state  there,  and  to  be  spies  upon  his 
conduct.  This  was  a  somewhat  clumsy  contrivance 
of  the  Republic  to  give  a  patriotic  character  to  its 
armies, which  were  often  recruited  from  mercenaries 
and  generaled  by  them  $  and,  of  course,  the  hireling 
leaders  must  always  have  chafed  under  the  surveil 
lance.  After  the  battle  of  Maclodio,  in  which  the 
Venetian  mercenaries  defeated  the  Milanese,  the  vic 
tors,  according  to  the  custom  of  their  trade,  began 
to  free  their  comrades  of  the  other  side  whom  they 
had  taken  prisoners.  The  commissioners  protested 
against  this  waste  of  results,  but  Carmagnola  an 
swered  that  it  was  the  usage  of  his  soldiers,  and  he 
could  not  forbid  it  ;  he  went  further,  and  himself 
liberated  some  remaining  prisoners.  His  action 
was  duly  reported  to  the  Senate,  and  as  he  had 
formerly  been  in  the  service  of  the  Duke  of  Milan, 
whose  kinswoman  he  had  married,  he  was  sus 
pected  of  treason.  He  was  invited  to  Venice,  and 
received  with  great  honor,  and  conducted  with 
every  nattering  ceremony  to  the  hall  of  the  Grand 
Council.  After  a  brief  delay,  sufficient  to  exclude 
Carmagnola's  followers,  the  Doge  ordered  him  to 
be  seized,  and  upon  a  summary  trial  he  was  put  to 


142  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

death.  From  this  tragedy  I  give  first  a  translation 
of  that  famous  chorus  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken ;  I  have  kept  the  measure  and  the  move 
ment  of  the  original  at  some  loss  of  literality. 
The  poem  is  introduced  into  the  scene  immediately 
succeeding  the  battle  of  Maclodio,  where  the  two 
bands  of  those  Italian  condottieri  had  met  to 
butcher  each  other  in  the  interests  severally  of  the 
Duke  of  Milan  and  the  Signory  of  Venice. 

CHORUS. 

On  the  right  hand  a  trumpet  is  sounding, 

On  the  left  hand  a  trumpet  replying, 
The  field  upon  all  sides  resounding 

With  the  trampling  of  foot  and  of  horse. 
Yonder  flashes  a  flag;  yonder  flying 
Through  the  still  air  a  bannerol  glances; 
Here  a  squadron  embattled  advances, 

There  another  that  threatens  its  course. 

The  space  'twixt  the  foes  now  beneath  them 

Is  hid,  and  on  swords  the  sword  ringeth; 
In  the  hearts  of  each  other  they  sheathe  them; 

Blood  runs,  they  redouble  their  blows. 
Who  are  these  ?     To  our  fair  fields  what  bringeth 
To  make  war  upon  us,  this  stranger? 
Which  is  he  that  hath  sworn  to  avenge  her, 
The  land  of  his  birth,  on  her  foes? 

They  are  all  of  one  land  and  one  nation, 
One  speech;    and  the  foreigner  names  them 

All  brothers,  of  one  generation; 

In  each  visage  their  kindred  is  seen; 
This  land  is  the  mother  that  claims  them, 


AX.ESSANDRO    MANZONI.  143 

This  land  that  their  life  blood  is  steeping, 
That  God,  from  all  other  lands  keeping, 

Set  the  seas  and  the  mountains  between. 

Ah,  which  drew  the  first  blade  among  them 

To  strike  at  the  heart  of  his  brother? 
What  wrong,  or  what  insult  hath  stung  them 

To  wipe  out  what  stain,  or  to  die? 

They  know  not  j   to  -slay  one  another 

They  come  in  a  cause  none  hath  told  them; 

A  chief  that  was  purchased  hath  sold  them; 

They  combat  for  him,  nor  ask  why. 

Ah,  woe  for  the  mothers  that  bare  them, 

For  the  wives  of  these  warriors  maddened! 
Why  come  not  their  loved  ones  to  tear  them 

Away  from  the  infamous  field? 
Their  sires,  whom  long  years  have  saddened, 
And  thoughts  of  the  sepulcher  chastened, 
In  warning  why  have  they  not  hastened 
To  bid  them  to  hold  and  to  yield? 

As  under  the  vine  that  embowers 

His  own  happy  thresholdj  the  smiling 
Clown  watches  the  tempest  that  lowers 

On  the  furrows  his  plow  has  not  turned, 
So  each  waits  in  safety,  beguiling 
The  time  with  his  count  of  those  falling 
Afar  in  the  fight,  and  the  appalling 

Flames  of  towns  and  of  villages  burned. 

There,  intent  on  the  lips  of  their  mothers, 
Thou  shalt  hear  little  children  with  scorning 

Learn  to  follow  and  flout  at  the  brothers 

Whose  blood  they  shall  go  forth  to  shed; 
Thou  shalt  see  wives  and  maidens  adorning 


144  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Their  bosoms  and  hair  with  the  splendor 
Of  gems  but  now  torn  from  the  tender, 

Hapless  daughters  and  wives  of  the  dead. 

Oh,  disaster,  disaster,  disaster ! 

With  the  slain  the  earth  's  hidden  already  j 
With  blood  reeks  the  whole  plain,  and  vaster 

And  fiercer  the  strife  than  before! 
But  along  the  ranks,  rent  and  unsteady, 
Many  waver  —  they  yield,  they  are  flying ! 
With  the  last  hope  of  victory  dying 
The  love  of  life  rises  again. 

As  out  of  the  fan,  when  it  tosses 

The  grain  in  its  breath,  the  grain  flashes, 
So  over  the  field  of  their  losses 

Fly  the  vanquished.     But  now  in  their  course 
Starts  a  squadron  that  suddenly  dashes 
Athwart  their  wild  flight  and  that  stays  them, 
While  hard  on  the  hindmost  dismays  them 
The  pursuit,  of  the  enemy's  horse. 

At  the  feet  of  the  foe  they  fall  trembling, 
And  yield  life  and  sword  to  his  keeping  j 
In  the  shouts  of  the  victors  assembling, 

The  moans  of  the  dying  are  drowned. 
To  the  saddle  a  courier  leaping, 
Takes  a  missive,  and  through  all  resistance, 
Spurs,  lashes,  devours  the  distance ; 
Every  hamlet  awakes  at  the  sound. 

Ah,  why  from  their  rest  and  their  labor 
To  the  hoof -beaten  road  do  they  gather  ? 

Why  turns  every  one  to  his  neighbor 

The  jubilant  tidings  to  hear? 
Thou  know'st  whence  he  comes,  wretched  father  ? 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  145 

And  thou  long'st  for  his  news,  hapless  mother? 
In  fight  brother  fell  upon  brother! 
These  terrible  tidings  I  bring. 

All  around  I  hear  cries  of  rejoicing  j 

The  temples  are  decked;  the  song  swelleth 
From  the  hearts  of  the  fratricides,  voicing 

Praise  and  thanks  that  are  hateful  to  God. 
Meantime  from  the  Alps  where  he  dwelleth 
The  Stranger  turns  hither  his  vision, 
And  numbers  with  cruel  derision 

The  brave  that  have  bitten  the  sod. 

Leave  your  games,  leave  your  songs  and  exulting  5 

Fill  again  your  battalions  and  rally 
Again  to  your  banners !     Insulting 

The  stranger  descends,  he  is  come ! 
Are  ye  feeble  and  few  in  your  sally, 
Ye  victors  ?     For  this  he  descendeth ! 
'T  is  for  this  that  his  challenge  he  sendeth 

From  the  fields  where  your  brothers  he  dumb  ! 

Thou  that  strait  to  thy  children  appearedst, 

Thou  that  knew'st  not  in  peace  how  to  tend  them, 
Fatal  land!  now  the  stranger  thou  fearedst 
Receive,  with  the  judgment  he  brings ! 
A  foe  unprovoked  to  offend  them 
At  thy  board  sitteth  down,  and  derideth, 
The  spoil  of  thy  foolish  divideth, 

Strips  "the  sword  from  the  hand  of  thy  kings. 

Foolish  he,  too !    "What  people  was  ever 
For  bloodshedding  blest,  or  oppression? 

To  the  vanquished  alone  comes  harm  never; 

To  tears  turns  the  wrong-doer's  joy! 
Though  he  'scape  through  the  years'  long  progression, 


146  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Yet  the  vengeance  eternal  o'ertaketh 
Him  surely;  it  waitetli  and  waketh; 
It  seizes  Mm  at  the  last  sigh ! 

We  are  all  made  in  one  Likeness  holy, 

Ransomed  all  by  one  only  redemption; 
Near  or  far,  rich  or  poor,  high  or  lowly, 

Wherever  we  breathe  in  life's  air, 
We  are  brothers,  by  one  great  preemption 
Bound  all ;  and  accursed  be  its  wronger, 
Who  would  ruin  by  right  of  the  stronger, 

Wring  the  hearts  of  the  weak  with  despair. 

Here  is  the  whole  political  history  of  Italy. 
In  this  poem  the  picture  of  the  confronted  hosts, 
the  vivid  scenes  of  the  combat,  the  lamentations 
over  the  ferocity  of  the  embattled  brothers,  and 
the  indifference  of  those  that  behold  their  kins 
men's  carnage,  the  strokes  by  which  the  victory, 
the  rout,  and  the  captivity  are  given,  and  then  the 
apostrophe  to  Italy,  and  finally  the  appeal  to  con 
science — are  all  masterly  effects.  I  do  not  know 
just  how  to  express  my  sense  of  near  approach 
through  that  last  stanza  to  the  heart  of  a  very 
great  and  good  man,  but  I  am  certain  that  I  have 
such  a  feeling. 

The  noble,  sonorous  music,  the  solemn  movement 
of  the  poem  are  in  great  part  lost  by  its  version 
into  English ;  yet,  I  hope  that  enough  are  left  to 
suggest  the  original.  I  think  it  quite  unsurpassed 
in  its  combination  of  great  artistic  and  moral 
qualities,  which  I  am  sure  my  version  has  not 
wholly  obscured,  bad  as  it  is. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  147 

VI 

THE  scene  following  first  upon  this  chorus  also 
strikes  me  with  the  grand  spirit  in  which  it  is 
wrought  5  and  in  its  revelations  of  the  motives  and 
ideas  of  the  old  professional  soldier-life,  it  reminds 
me  of  Schiller's  Wallenstein's  Camp.  Manzoni's 
canvas  has  not  the  breadth  of  that  of  the  other 
master,  but  he  paints  with  as  free  and  bold  a  hand, 
and  his  figures  have  an  equal  heroism  of  attitude 
and  motive.  The  generous  soldierly  pride  of  Car- 
magnola,  and  the  strange  esprit  du  corps  of  the  mer 
cenaries,  who  now  stood  side  by  side,  and  now 
front  to  front  in  battle ;  who  sold  themselves  to 
any  buyer  that  wanted  killing  done,  and  whose 
noblest  usage  was  in  violation  of  the  letter  of  their 
bargains,  are  the  qualities  on  which  the  poet 
touches,  in  order  to  waken  our  pity  for  what  has 
already  raised  our  horror.  It  is  humanity  in  either 
case  that  inspires  him — a  humanity  characteristic 
of  many  Italians  of  this  century,  who  have  studied 
so  long  in  the  school  of  suffering  that  they  know 
how  to  abhor  a  system  of  wrong,  and  yet  excuse 
its  agents. 

The  scene  I  am  to  give  is  in  the  tent  of  the  great 
condottiere.  Carmagnola  is  speaking  with  one  of 
the  Commissioners  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  when 
the  other  suddenly  enters  : 

Commissioner.  My  lord,  if  instantly 

You  haste  not  to  prevent  it,  treachery 
Shameless  and  bold  will  be  accomplished,  making 
Our  victory  vain,  as  't  partly  hath  already. 


148  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Count.  How  now  ? 

Com.  The  prisoners  leave  the  camp  in  troops! 

The  leaders  and  the  soldiers  vie  together 
To  set  them  free  j  and  nothing  can  restrain  them 
Saving  command  of  yours. 

Count.  Command  of  mine? 

Com.  You  hesitate  to  give  it  ? 

Count.  'T  is  a  use, 

This,  of  the  war,  you  know.     It  is  so  sweet 
To  pardon  when  we  conquer  j  and  their  hate 
Is  quickly  turned  to  friendship  in  the  hearts 
That  throb  beneath  the  steel.    Ah,  do  not  seek 
To  take  this  noble  privilege  from  those 
Who  risked  their  lives  for  your  sake,  and  to-day 
Are  generous  because  valiant  yesterday. 

Com.  Let  him  be  generous  who  fights  for  himself, 
My  lord!    But  these  —  and  it  rests  upon  their  honor— 
Have  fought  at  our  expense,  and  unto  us 
Belong  the  prisoners. 

Count.  You  may  well  think  so, 

Doubtless,  but  those  who  met  them  front  to  front, 
Who  felt  their  blows,  and  fought  so  hard  to  lay 
Their  bleeding  hands  upon  them,  they  will  not 
So  easily  believe  it. 

Com.  And  is  this 

A  joust  for  pleasure  then1?     Doth  not  Venice 
Conquer  to  keep?     And  shall  her  victory 
Be  all  in  vain  ? 

Count.  Already  I  have  heard  it, 

And  I  must  hear  that  word  again  ?     'T  is  bitter  j 
Importunate  it  comes  upon  me,  like  an  insect 
That,  driven  once  away,  returns  to  buzz 
About  my  face.  .  .  .  The  victory  is  in  vain! 
The  field  is  heaped  with  corpses ;  scattered  wide, 
And  broken  are  the  rest  —  a  most  flourishing 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  149 

Army,  with  which,  if  it  were  still  united, 

And  it  were  mine,  mine  truly,  I  'd  engage 

To  overrun  all  Italy!     Every  design 

Of  the  enemy  baffled;  even  the  hope  of  harm 

Taken  away  from  him;  and  from  my  hand 

Hardly  escaped,  and  giad  of  their  escape, 

Four  captains  against  whom  but  yesterday 

It  were  a  boast  to  show  resistance;  vanished 

Half  of  the  dread  of  those  great  names;  in  us 

Doubled  the  daring  that  the  foe  has  lost; 

The  whole  choice  of  the  war  now  in  our  hands; 

And  ours  the  lands  they  've  left  —  is 't  nothing  1 

Think  you  that  they  will  go  back  to  the  Duke, 

Those  prisoners ;  and  that  they  love  him,  or 

Care  more  for  him  than  you  f  that  they  have  fought 

In  his  behalf"?     Nay,  they  have  combatted 

Because  a  sovereign  voice  within  the  heart 

Of  men  that  follow  any  banner  cries, 

"  Combat  and  conquer ! "  they  have  lost  and  so 

Are  set  at  liberty;  they  '11  sell  themselves  — 

0,  such  is  now  the  soldier! — to  the  first 

That  seeks  to  buy  them  —  Buy  them ;  they  are  yours  ! 

1st  Com.  When  we  paid  those  that  were  to  fight  with 

them, 
We  then  believed  ourselves  to  have  purchased  them. 

2d  Com.  My  lord,  Venice  confides  in  you ;  in  you 
She  sees  a  son ;  and  all  that  to  her  good 
And  to  her  glory  can  redound,  expects 
Shall  be  done  by  you. 

Count.  Everything  I  can. 

2d  Com.  And  what  can  you  not  do  upon  this  field? 

Count.  The  thing  you  ask.     An  ancient  use,  a  use 
Dear  to  the  soldier,  I  can  not  violate. 

2d  Com.  You,    whom  no    one   resists,  on   whom   so 
promptly 


150  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Every  will  follows,  so  that  none  can  say, 
Whether  for  love  or  fear  it  yield  itself  5 
You,  in  this  camp,  you  are  not  able,  you, 
To  make  a  law,  and  to  enforce  it  ? 

Count.  I  said 

I  could  not;  now  I  rather  say,  I  will  not! 
No  further  words ;  with  friends  this  hath  been  ever 
My  ancient  custom  j  satisfy  at  once 
And  gladly  all  just  prayers,  and  for  all  other 
Refuse  them  openly  and  promptly.     Soldier ! 

Com.  Nay  —  what  is  your  purpose*? 

Count.  You  will  see  anon. 

[To  a  soldier  ivho  enters. 
How  many  prisoners  still  remain  ? 

Soldier.  I  think, 

My  lord,  four  hundred. 

Count.  Call  them  hither — call 

The  bravest  of  them  —  those  you  meet  the  first; 
Send  them  here  quickly.  [Exit  soldier. 

Surely,  I  might  do  it  — 

If  I  gave  such  a  sign,  there  were  not  heard 
A  murmur  in  the  camp.     But  these,  my  children, 
My  comrades  amid  peril,  and  in  joy, 
Those  who  confide  in  me,  believe  they  follow 
A  leader  ever  ready  to  defend 
The  honor  and  advantage  of  the  soldier; 
I  play  them  false,  and  make  more  slavish  yet, 
More  vile  and  base  their  calling,  than  't  is  now  ? 
Lords,  I  am  trustful,  as  the  soldier  is, 
But  if  you  now  insist  on  that  from  me 
Which  shall  deprive  me  of  my  comrades'  love, 
If  you  desire  to  separate  me  from  them, 
And  so  reduce  me  that  I  have  no  stay 
Saving  yourselves  —  in  spite  of  me  I  say  it, 
You  force  me,  you,  to  doubt  — 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  151 

Com.  What  do  you  say? 

[The  prisoners^  among  them  young  Pergola,  enter. 

Count  (To  the  prisoners).    0  brave  in  vain !    Unfortu 
nate!     To  you, 

Fortune  is  cruelest,  then?     And  you  alone 
Are  to  a  sad  captivity  reserved1? 

A  prisoner.  Such,  mighty  lord,  was  never  our  belief. 
When  we  were  called  into  your  presence,  we 
Did  seem  to  hear  a  messenger  that  gave 
Our  freedom  to  us.    Already,  all  of  those 
That  yielded  them  to  captains  less  than  you 
Have  been  released,  and  only  we  — 

Count.  Who  was  it, 

That  made  you  prisoners'? 

Prisoner.  We  were  the  last 

To  give  our  arms  up.     All  the  rest  were  taken 
Or  put  to  flight,  and  for  a  few  brief  moments 
The  evil  fortune  of  the  battle  weighed 
On  us  alone.     At  last  you  made  a  sign 
That  we  should  draw  nigh  to  your  banner, — we 
Alone  not  conquered,  relics  of  the  lost. 

Count.  You  are  those  ?    I  am  very  glad,  my  friends, 
To  see  you  again,  and  I  can  testify 
That  you  fought  bravely;  and  if  so  much  valor 
Were  not  betrayed,  and  if  a  captain  equal 
Unto  yourselves  had  led  you,  it  had  been 
No  pleasant  thing  to  stand  before  you. 

Prisoner.  And  now 

Shall  it  be  our  misfortune  to  have  yielded 
Only  to  you,  my  lord?    And  they  that  found 
A  conqueror  less  glorious,  shall  they  find 
More  courtesy  in  him?     In  vain  we  asked 
Our  freedom  of  your  soldiers  —  no  one  durst 
Dispose  of  us  without  your  own  assent, 
But  all  did  promise  it.     "  0,  if  you  can, 


152  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Show  yourselves  to  the  Count,"  they  said.    "  Be  sure, 

He  '11  not  embitter  fortune  to  the  vanquished ; 

An  ancient  courtesy  of  war  will  never 

Be  ta'en  away  by  him;  he  would  have  been 

E-ather  the  first  to  have  invented  it." 

Count  (To  the  Corns).  You  hear  them,  lords  ?    Well, 

then,  what  do  you  say  ? 
What  would  you  do,  you  ?  (To  the  prisoners) 

Heaven  forbid  that  any 

Should  think  more  highly  than  myself  of  me ! 
You  are  all  free,  my  friends;  farewell!   Go,  follow 
Your  fortune,  and  if  e'er  again  it  lead  you 
Under  a  banner  that 's  adverse  to  mine, 
Why,   we   shall   see   each   other.     (The   Count  observes 
young  Pergola  and  stops  him.) 

Ho,  young  man, 

Thou  art  not  of  the  vulgar !     Dress,  and  face 
More  clearly  still,  proclaims  it;  yet  with  the  others 
Thou  minglest  and  art  silent"? 

Pergola.  Vanquished  men 

Have  nought  to  say,  O  captain. 

Count.  This  ill-fortune 

Thou  bearest  so,  that  thou  dost  show  thyself 
Worthy  a  better.     What 's  thy  name  ? 

Pergola.  A  name 

Whose  fame  't  were  hard  to  greaten,  and  that  lays 
On  him  who  bears  it  a  great  obligation. 
Pergola  is  my  name. 

Count.  What !  thou  'rt  the  son 

Of  that  brave  man  ? 

Pergola.  I  am  he. 

Count.  Come,  embrace 

Thy  father's  ancient  friend !     Such  as  thou  art 
That  I  was  when  I  knew  him  first.     Thou  bringest 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  153 

Happy  days  back  to  me !  the  happy  days 

Of  hope.     And  take  thou  heart !     Fortune  did  give 

A  happier  beginning  unto  me; 

But  fortune's  promises  are  for  the  brave. 

And  soon  or  late  she  keeps  them.    Greet  for  me 

Thy  father,  boy,  and  say  to  him  that  I 

Asked  it  not  of  thee,  but  that  I  was  sure 

This  battle  was  not  of  his  choosing. 

Pergola.  Surely, 

He  chose  it  not;  but  his  words  were  as  wind. 

Count.  Let  it  not  grieve  thee  ;  't  is  the  leader's  shame 
"Who  is  defeated;  he  begins  well  ever 
Who  like  a  brave  man  fights  where  he  is  placed. 
Come  with  me,  (takes  his  hand) 

I  would  show  thee  to  my  comrades. 
I  'd  give  thee  back  thy  sword.     Adieu,  my  lords ; 

(To  the  Corns.) 

I  never  will  be  merciful  to  your  foes 
Till  I  have  conquered  them. 

A  notable  thing  in  this  tragedy  of  Carmagnola 
is  that  the  interest  of  love  is  entirely  wanting  to  it, 
and  herein  it  differs  very  widely  from  the  play  of 
Schiller.  The  soldiers  are  simply  soldiers;  and 
this  singleness  of  motive  is  in  harmony  with  the 
Italian  conception  of  art.  Yet  the  Carmagnola  of 
Manzoni  is  by  no  means  like  the  heroes  of  the  Alfie- 
rian  tragedy.  He  is  a  man,  not  merely  an  embodied 
passion  or  mood ;  his  character  is  rounded,  and  has 
all  the  checks  and  counterpoises,  the  inconsisten 
cies,  in  a  word,  without  which  nothing  actually 
lives  in  literature,  or  usefully  lives  in  the  world. 
In  his  generous  and  magnificent  illogicality,  lie 
7* 


154  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

comes  the  nearest  being  a  woman  of  all  the  char 
acters  in  the  tragedy.  There  is  no  other  per 
sonage  in  it  equaling  him  in  interest  5  but  he 
also  is  subordinated  to  the  author's  purpose  of 
teaching  his  countrymen  an  enlightened  patri 
otism.  I  am  loath  to  blame  this  didactic  aim, 
which,  I  suppose,  mars  the  aesthetic  excellence  of 
the  piece. 

Carmagnola's  liberation  of  the  prisoners  was  not 
forgiven  him  by  Venice,  who,  indeed,  never  for 
gave  anything-  he  was  in  due  time  entrapped  in 
the  hall  of  the  Grand  Council,  and  condemned  to 
die.  The  tragedy  ends  with  a  scene  in  his  prison, 
where  he  awaits  his  wife  and  daughter,  who  are 
coming  with  one  of  his  old  comrades,  Gonzago,  to 
bid  him  a  last  farewell.  These  passages  present 
the  poet  in  his  sweeter  and  tenderer  moods,  and 
they  have  had  a  great  charm  for  me. 

SCENE — THE  PRISON. 

Count  (speaking  of  his  wife  and  daughter).    By  this  time 

they  must  know  my  fate.     Ah !  why 
Might  I  not  die  far  from  them?     Dread,  indeed, 
Would  be  the  news  that  reached  them,  but,  at  least, 
The  darkest  hour  of  agony  would  be  past, 
And  now  it  stands  before  us.     We  must  needs 
Drink  the  draft  drop  by  drop.     0  open  fields, 
O  liberal  sunshine,  0  uproar  of  arms, 
O  joy  of  peril,  0  trumpets,  and  the  cries 
Of  combatants,  0  my  true  steed !  'midst  you 
'T  were  fair  to  die ;  but  now  I  go  rebellious 
To  meet  my  destiny,  driven  to  my  doom 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  155 

Like  some  vile  criminal,  uttering  on  the  way 
Impotent  vows,  and  pitiful  complaints. 

But  I  shall  see  my  dear  ones  once  again 
And,  alas !  hear  their  moans  j  the  last  adieu 
Hear  from  their  lips — shall  find  myself  once  more 
Within  their  arms — then  part  from  them  forever. 
They  come !    0  God,  bend  down  from  heaven  on  them 
One  look  of  pity. 

[Enter  ANTONIETTA,  MATILDE,  and  GONZAGA. 

Antonietta.  My  husband ! 

Matilde.  0  my  father ! 

Antonietta.  All,  thus  thou  comest  back  !   Is  this  the 

moment 
So  long  desired? 

Count.  0  poor  souls  !     Heaven  knows 

That  only  for  your  sake  is  it  dreadful  to  me. 
I  who  so  long  am  used  to  look  on  death, 
And  to  expect  it,  only  for  your  sakes 
Do  I  need  courage.    And  you,  you  will  not  surely 
Take  it  away  tfrom  me  ?    God,  when  he  makes 
Disaster  fall  on  the  innocent,  he  gives,  too, 
The  heart  to  bear  it.    Ah !  let  yours  be  equal 
To  your  affliction  now!    Let  us  enjoy 
This  last  embrace  —  it  likewise  is  Heaven's  gift. 
Daughter,  thou  weepest ;  and  thou,  wife  !     Oh,  when 
I  chose  thee  mine,  serenely  did  thy  days 
Glide  on  in  peace ;  but  made  I  thee  companion 
Of  a  sad  destiny.     And  it  is  this  thought 
Embitters  death  to  me.    Would  that  I  could  not 
See  how  unhappy  I  have  made  thee! 

Antonietta.  0  husband 

Of  my  glad  days,  thou  mad'st  them  glad !    My  heart, — 
Yes,  thou  may'st  read  it !  —  I  die  of  sorrow !    Yet 
I  could  not  wish  that  I  had  not  been  thine. 


156  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Count.  O  love,  I  know  how  much  I  lose  in  thee: 
Make  me  not  feel  it  now  too  much. 

Matilde.  The  murderers! 

Count.  No,  no,  my  sweet  Matilde;  let  not  those 
Fierce  cries  of  hatred  and  of  vengeance  rise 
From  out  thine  innocent  soul.     Nay,  do  not  mar 
These  moments ;  they  are  holy ;  the  wrong  's  great, 
But  pardon  it,  and  thou  shalt  see  in  midst  of  ills 
A  lofty  joy  remaining  still.     My  death, 
The  cruelest  enemy  could  do  no  more 
Than  hasten  it.     Oh  surely  men  did  never 
Discover  death,  for  they  had  made  it  fierce 
And  insrpportable !     It  is  from  Heaven 
That  it  doth  come,  and  Heaven  accompanies  it, 
Still  with  such  comfort  as  men  cannot  give 
Nor  take  away.     0  daughter  and  dear  wife, 
Hear  my  last  words!    All  bitterly,  I  see, 
They  fall  upon  your  hearts.    But  you   one   day  will 

have 

Some  solace  in  remembering  them  together. 
Dear  wife,  live  thou;   conquer  thy  sorrow,  live; 
Let  not  this  poor  girl  utterly  be  orphaned. 
Fly  from  this  land,  and  quickly ;  to  thy  kindred 
Take  her  with  thee.     She  is  their  blood;  to  them 
Thou  once  wast  dear,  and  when  thou  didst  become 
Wife  of  their  foe,  only  less  dear;  the  cruel 
Reasons  of  state  have  long  time  made  adverse 
The  names  of  Carmagnola  and  Visconti; 
But  thou  go'st  back  unhappy;  the  sad  cause 
Of  hate  is  gone.     Death  's  a  great  peacemaker ! 
And  thou,  my  tender  flower,  that  to  my  arms 
Wast  wont  to  come  and  make  my  spirit  light, 
Thou  bow'st  thy  head?    Aye,  aye,  the  tempest  roars 
Above  thee!     Thou  dost  tremble,  and  thy  breast 
Is  shaken  with  thy  sobs.     Upon  my  face 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  157 

I  feel  thy  burning  tears  fall  down  on  me, 
And  cannot  wipe  them  from  thy  tender  eyes. 

.   .   .   Thou  seem'st  to  ask 
Pity  of  me,  Matilde.    Ah !  thy  father 
Can  do  naught  for  thee.    But  there  is  in  heaven, 
There  is  a  Father  thou  know'st  for  the  forsaken; 
Trust  him  and  live  on  tranquil  if  not  glad. 


Gonzaga,  I  offer  thee  this  hand,  which  often 
Thou  hast  pressed  upon  the  morn  of  battle,  when 
We  knew  not  if  we  e'er  should  meet  again: 
Wilt  press  it  now  once  more,  and  give  to  me 
Thy  faith  that  thou  wilt  be  defense  and  guard 
Of  these  poor  women,  till  they  are  returned 
Unto  their  kinsmen? 

Gonzaga.  I  do  promise  thee. 

Count.  When  thou  go'st  back  to  camp, 
Salute  my  brothers  for  me }  and  say  to  them 
That  I  die  innocent ;  witness  thou  hast  been 
Of  all  my  deeds  and  thoughts  —  thou  knowest  it. 
Tell  them  that  I  did  never  stain  my  sword 
With  treason  —  I  did  never  stain  it  —  and 
I  am  betrayed.  —  And  when  the  trumpets  blow, 
And  when  the  banners  beat  against  the  wind, 
Give  thou  a  thought  to  thine  old  comrade  then ! 
And  on  some  mighty  day  of  battle,  when 
Upon  the  field  of  slaughter  the  priest  lifts 
His  hands  amid  the  doleful  noises,  offering  up 
The  sacrifice  to  heaven  for  the  dead, 
Bethink  thyself  of  me,  for  I  too  thought 
To  die  in  battle. 

Antonietta.  0  God,  have  pity  on  us! 

Count.  0  wife !  Matilde !  now  the  hour  is  near 
We  needs  must  part.    Farewell! 


158  MODERN    ITALIAN-  POETS. 

Matilde.  No,  father  — 

Count.  Yet 

Once  more,  come  to  my  heart !     Once  more,  and  now, 
In  mercy,  go ! 

Antonietta.        Ah,  no!  they  shall  unclasp  us 
By  force ! 

[A  sound  of  armed  men  is  heard  without. 
Matilde.     What  sound  is  that1? 
Antonietta.  Almighty  God ! 

[The  door  opens  in  the  middle;  armed  men 
are  seen.  Their  leader  advances  toward 
the  Count;  the  women  sivoon. 

Count.  Merciful  God !    Thou  hast  removed  from  them 
This  cruel  moment,  and  I  thank  Thee  !     Friend, 
Succor  them,  and  from  this  unhappy  place 
Bear  them !    And  when  they  see  the  light  again, 
Tell  them  that  nothing  more  is  left  to  fear. 


VII 


IN  the  Carmagnola  having  dealt  with  the  internal 
wars  which  desolated  medieval  Italy,  Manzoni  in 
the  Adelchi  takes  a  step  further  back  in  time,  and 
evolves  his  tragedy  from  the  downfall  of  the  Lon- 
gobard  kingdom  and  the  invasion  of  the  Franks. 
These  enter  Italy  at  the  bidding  of  the  priests,  to 
sustain  the  Church  against  the  disobedience  and 
contumacy  of  the  Longobards. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  159 

Desiderio  and  his  son  Adelchi  are  kings  of  the 
Longobards,  and  the  tragedy  opens  with  the  return 
to  their  city  Pavia  of  Ermenegarda,  Adelchi's 
sister,  who  was  espoused  to  Carlo,  king  of  the 
Franks,  and  has  been  repudiated  by  him.  The 
Longobards  have  seized  certain  territories  belong 
ing  to  the  Church,  and  as  they  refuse  to  restore 
them,  the  ecclesiastics  send  a  messenger,  who 
crosses  the  Alps  on  foot,  to  the  camp  of  the  Franks, 
and  invites  their  king  into  Italy  to  help  the  cause 
of  the  Church.  The  Franks  descend  into  the  valley 
of  Susa,  and  soon  after  defeat  the  Longobards.  It 
is  in  this  scene  that  the  chorus  of  the  Italian 
peasants,  who  suffer,  no  matter  which  side  conquers, 
is  introduced.  The  Longobards  retire  to  Verona, 
and  Erinenegarda,  whose  character  is  painted 
with  great  tenderness  and  delicacy,  and  whom 
we  may  take  for  a  type  of  the  what  little  good 
ness  and  gentleness,  sorely  puzzled,  there  was  in 
the  world  at  that  time  (which  was  really  one  of 
the  worst  of  all  the  bad  times  in  the  world),  dies  in 
a  convent  near  Brescia,  while  the  war  rages  all 
round  her  retreat.  A  defection  takes  place  among 
the  Longobards;  Desiderio  is  captured;  a  last 
stand  is  made  by  Adelchi  at  Verona,  where  he  is 
mortally  wounded,  and  is  brought  prisoner  to  his 
father  in  the  tent  of  Carlo.  The  tragedy  ends  with 
his  death ;  and  I  give  the  whole  of  the  last  scene  : 

Enter  CARLO  and  DESIDERIO. 

Desiderio.  Oh,  how  heavily 
Hast  thou  descended  upon  my  gray  head, 


160  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Thou  hand  of  God!     How  comes  my  son  to  me! 

My  son,  my  only  glory,  here  I  languish, 

And  tremble  to  behold  thee  !     Shall  I  see 

Thy  deadly  wounded  body,  I  that  should 

Be  wept  by  thee "?     I,  miserable,  alone, 

Dragged  thee  to  this ;  blind  dotard  I,  that  fain 

Had  made  earth  fair  to  thee,  I  digged  thy  grave. 

If  only  thou  amidst  thy  warriors'  songs 

Hadst  fallen  on  some  day  of  victory, 

Or  had  I  closed  upon  thy  royal  bed 

Thine  eyes  amidst  the  sobs  and  reverent  grief 

Of  thy  true  liegemen,  ah;  it  still  had  been 

Anguish  ineffable  !     And  now  thou  diest, 

No  king,  deserted,  in  thy  foeman's  land, 

With  110  lament,  saving  thy  father's,  uttered 

Before  the  man  that  doth  exult  to  hear  it. 

Carlo.  Old  man,  thy  grief  deceives  thee.    Sorrowful, 
And  not  exultant  do  I  see  the  fate 
Of  a  brave  man  and  king.    Adelchi's  foe 
Was  I,  and  he  was  mine,  nor  such  that  I 
Might  rest  upon  this  new  throne,  if  he  lived 
And  were  not  in  my  hands.     But  now  he  is 
In  God's  own  hands,  whither  no  enmity 
Of  man  can  follow  him. 

Des.  'T  is  a  fatal  gift 

Thy  pity,  if  it  never  is  bestowed 
Save  upon  those  fallen  beyond  all  hope  — 
If  thou  dost  never  stay  thine  arm  until 
Thou  canst  find  no  place  to  inflict  a  wound! 

(Adelclii  is  brought  in,  mortally  wounded.) 

Des.  My  son ! 

Adelchi.  And  do  I  see  thee  once  more,  father? 

Oh  come,  and  touch  my  hand ! 

Des.  'T  is  terrible 

For  me  to  see  thee  so! 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  161 

Ad.  Many  in  battle 

Did  fall  so  by  my  sword. 

Des.  Ah,  then,  this  wound 

Thou  hast,  it  is  incurable'? 

Ad.  Incurable. 

Des.  Alas,  atrocious  war! 

And  cruel  I  that  made  it.     'T  is  I  kill  thee. 

Ad.   Not  thou  nor    he    (pointing  to  Carlo),  but   the 
Lord  God  of  aU. 

Des.  Oh,  dear  unto  those  eyes!  how  far  away 
From  thee  I  suffered!  and  it  was  one  thought 
Among  so  many  woes  upheld  me.     'T  was  the  hope 
To  tell  thee  all  one  day  in  some  safe  hour 
Of  peace  — 

Ad.  That  hour  of  peace  has  come  to  me. 
Believe  it,  father,  save  that  I  leave  thee 
Crushed  with  thy  sorrow  here  below. 

Des.  0  front 

Serene  and  bold!     O  fearless  hand!     0  eyes 
That  once  struck  terror! 

Ad.  Cease  thy  lamentations, 

Cease,  father,  in  God's  name!    For  was  not  this 
The  time  to  die?    But  thou  that  shalt  live  captive, 
And  hast  lived  all  thy  days  a  king,  oh  listen: 
Life  's  a  great  secret  that  is  not  revealed 
Save  in  the  latest  hour.     Thou  'st  lost  a  kingdom ; 
Nay,  do  not  weep!     Trust  me,  when  to  this  hour 
Thou  also  shalt  draw  nigh,  most  jubilant 
And  fair  shall  pass  before  thy  thought  the  years 
In  which  thou  wast  not  king  —  the  years  in  which 
No  tears  shall  be  recorded  in  the  skies 
Against  thee,  and  thy  name  shall  not  ascend 
Mixed  with  the  curses  of  the  unhappy.     Oh, 
Rejoice  that  thou  art  king  no  longer!  that 
All  ways  are  closed  against  thee!    There  is  none 


MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

For  innocent  action,  and  there  but  remains 
To  do  wrong  or  to  suffer  wrong.    A  power 
Fierce,  pitiless,  grasps  the  world,  and  calls  itself 
The  right.     The  ruthless  hands  of  our  forefathers 
Did  sow  injustice,  and  our  fathers  then 
Did  water  it  with  blood ;   and  now  the  earth 
No  other  harvest  bears.     It  is  not  meet 
To  uphold  crime,  thou  'st  proved  it,  and  if  't  were, 
Must  it  not  end  thus  ?    Nay,  this  happy  man 
Whose  throne  my  dying  renders  more  secure, 
Whom  all  men  smile  on  and  applaud,  and  serve, 
He  is  a  man  and  he  shall  die. 

Des.  But  I 

That  lose  my  son,  what  shall  console  me  ? 

Ad.  God  I 

Who  comforts  us  for  all  things.     And  oh,  thou 
Proud  foe  of  mine!  (Turning  to  Carlo.) 

Carlo.  Nay,  by  this  name,  Adelchi, 

Call  me  no  more ;   I  was  so,  but  toward  death 
Hatred  is  impious  and  villainous.     Nor  such, 
Believe  me,  knows  the  heart  of  Carlo. 

Ad.  Friendly 

My  speech  shall  be,  then,  very  meek  and  free 
Of  every  bitter  memory  to  both. 
For  this  I  pray  thee,  and  my  dying  hand 
I  lay  in  thine!     I  do  not  ask  that  thou 
Should'st  let  go  free  so  great  a  captive  —  no, 
For  I  well  see  that  my  prayer  were  in  vain 
And  vain  the  prayer  of  any  mortal.    Firm 
Thy  heart  is  —  must  be  —  nor  so  far  extends 
Thy  pity.     That  which  thou  can'st  not  deny 
Without  being  cruel,  that  I  ask  thee !    Mild 
As  it  can  be,  and  free  of  insult,  be 
This  old  man's  bondage,  even  such  as  thou 
Would'st  have  implored  for  thy  father,  if  the  heavens 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  163 

Had  destined  thee  the  SOITOW  of  leaving  him 
In  others'  power.     His  venerable  head 
Keep  thou  from  every  outrage  ;   for  against 
The  fallen  many  are  brave ;  and  let  him  not 
Endure  the  cruel  sight  of  any  of  those 
His  vassals  that  betrayed  him. 

Carlo.  Take  in  death 

This  glad  assurance,  Adelchi!  and  be  Heaven 
My  testimony,  that  thy  prayer  is  as 
The  word  of  Carlo ! 

Ad.  And  thy  enemy, 

In  dying,  prays  for  thee ! 

Enter  ARVINO. 

Arvino.   (Impatiently]   0   mighty  king,   thy  warriors 

and  chiefs 
Ask  entrance. 

A  d.  (Appealingly.)  Carlo ! 

Carlo.  Let  not  any  dare 

To  draw  anigh  this  tent;  for  here  Adelchi 
Is  sovereign  5  and  no  one  but  Adelchi's  father 
And  the  meek  minister  of  divine  forgiveness 
Have  access  here. 

Des.  O  my  beloved  son! 

Ad.  0  my  father, 

The  light  forsakes  these  eyes. 

Des.  Adelchi,— No! 

Thou  shalt  not  leave  me ! 

Ad.  0  King  of  kings!  betrayed 

By  one  of  Thine,  by  all  the  rest  abandoned : 
I  come  to  seek  Thy  peace,  and  do  Thou  take 
My  weary  soul! 

Des.  He  heareth  thee,  my  son, 

And  thou  art  gone,  and  I  in  servitude 
Remain  to  weep. 


164  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

I  wish  to  give  another  passage  from  this  trag 
edy  :  the  speech  which  the  emissary  of  the  Church 
makes  to  Carlo  when  he  reaches  his  presence 
after  his  arduous  passage  of  the  Alps.  I  suppose 
that  all  will  note  the  beauty  and  reality  of  the 
description  in  the  story  this  messenger  tells  of  his 
adventures;  and  I  feel,  for  my  part,  a  profound 
effect  of  wildness  and  loneliness  in  the  verse,  which 
has  almost  the  solemn  light  and  balsamy  perfume 
of  those  mountain  solitudes : 

From  the  camp, 

Unseen,  I  issued,  and  retraced  the  steps 
But  lately  taken.     Thence  upon  the  right 
I  turned  toward  Aquilone.     Abandoning 
The  beaten  paths,  I  found  myself  within 
A  dark  and  narrow  valley;   but  it  grew 
Wider  before  my  eyes  as  further  on 
I  kept  my  way.     Here,  now  and  then,  I  saw 
The  wandering  flocks,  and  huts  of  shepherds.     'T  was 
The  furthermost  abode  of  men.     I  entered 
One  of  the  huts,  craved  shelter,  and  upon 
The  woolly  fleece  I  slept  the  night  away. 
Rising  at  dawn,  of  my  good  shepherd  host 
I  asked  my  way  to  France.     "  Beyond  those  heights 
Are  other  heights,"  he  said,  "and  others  yet; 
And  France  is  far  and  far  away;   but  path 
There  's  none,  and  thousands  are  those  mountains  — 
Steep,  naked,  dreadful,  uninhabited 
Unless  by  ghosts,  and  never  mortal  man 
Passed  over  them."     "  The  ways  of  God  are  many, 
Far  more  than  those  of  mortals,"  I  replied, 
"And   God  sends  me."     "And  God  guide  you!"  he 

said. 
Then,  from  among  the  loaves  he  kept  in  store, 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  165 

He  gathered  up  as  many  as  a  pilgrim 

May  carry,  and  in  a  coarse  sack  wrapping  them, 

He  laid  them  on  my  shoulders.     Recompense 

I  prayed  from  Heaven  for  him,  and  took  my  way. 

Reaching  the  valley's  top,  a  peak  arose, 

And,  putting  faith  in  God,  I  climbed  it.     Here 

No  trace  of  man  appeared,  only  the  forests 

Of  untouched  pines,  rivers  unknown,  and  vales 

Without  a  path.     All  hushed,  and  nothing  else 

But  my  own  steps  I  heard,  and  now  and  then 

The  rushing  of  the  torrents,  and  the  sudden 

Scream  of  the  hawk,  or  else  the  eagle,  launched 

From  his  high  nest,  and  hurtling  through  the  dawn, 

Passed  close  above  my  head;   or  then  at  noon, 

Struck  by  the  sun,  the  crackling  of  the  cones 

Of  the  wild  pines.    And  so  three  days  I  walked, 

And  under  the  great  trees,  and  in  the  clefts, 

Three  nights  I  rested.     The  sun  was  my  guide ; 

I  rose  with  him,  and  him  upon  his  journey 

I  followed  till  he  set.     Uncertain  still, 

Of  my  own  way  I  went;   from  vale  to  vale 

Crossing  forever;  or,  if  it  chanced  at  times 

I  saw  the  accessible  slope  of  some  great  height 

Rising  before  me,  and  attained  its  crest, 

Yet  loftier  summits  still,  before,  around, 

Towered  over  me ;   and  other  heights  with  snow 

From  foot  to  summit  whitening,  that  did  seem 

Like  steep,  sharp  tents  fixed  in  the  soil;   and  others 

Appeared  like  iron,  and  arose  in  guise 

Of  walls  insuperable.     The  third  day  fell 

What  time  I  had  a  mighty  mountain  seen 

That  raised  its  top  above  the  others;   't  was 

All  one  green  slope,  and  all  its  top  was  crowned 

With  trees.    And  thither  eagerly  I  turned 

My  weary  steps.     It  was  the  eastern  side, 


166  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Sire,  of  this  very  mountain  on  which  lies 

Thy  camp  that  faces  toward  the  setting  sun. 

While  I  yet  lingered  on  its  spurs  the  darkness 

Did  overtake  me  5   and  upon  the  dry 

And  slippery  needles  of  the  pine  that  covered 

The  ground,  I  made  my  bed,  and  pillowed  me 

Against  their  ancient  trunks.     A  smiling  hope 

Awakened  me  at  day-break  5   and  all  full 

Of  a  strange  vigor,  up  the  steep  I  climbed. 

Scarce  had  I  reached  the  summit  when  my  ear 

Was  smitten  with  a  murmur  that  from  far 

Appeared  to  come,  deep,  ceaseless;   and  I  stood 

And  listened  motionless.     'T  was  not  the  waters 

Broken  upon  the  rocks  below;   'twas  not  the  wind 

That  blew  athwart  the  woods  and  whistling  ran 

From  one  tree  to  another,  but  verily 

A  sound  of  living  men,  an  indistinct 

Rumor  of  words,  of  arms,  of  trampling  feet, 

Swarming  from  far  away;   an  agitation 

Immense,  of  men!     My  heart  leaped,  and  my  steps 

I  hastened.     On  that  peak,  0  king,  that  seems 

To  us  like  some  sharp  blade  to  pierce  the  heaven, 

There  lies  an  ample  plain  that  's  covered  thick 

With  grass  ne'er  trod  before.     And  this  I  crossed 

The  quickest  way;   and  now  at  every  instant 

The  murmur  nearer  grew,  and  I  devoured 

The  space  between;   I  reached  the  brink,  I  launched 

My  glance  into  the  valley  and  I  saw, 

I  saw  the  tents  of  Israel,  the  desired 

Pavilion  of  Jacob;   on  the  ground 

I  fell,  thanked  God,  adored  him,  and  descended. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  167 

VIII 

I  COULD  easily  multiply  beautiful  and  effective 
passages  from  the  poetry  of  Manzoni ;  but  I  will 
give  only  one  more  version,  "  The  Fifth  of  May," 
that  ode  on  the  death  of  Napoleon,  which,  if  not 
the  most  perfect  lyric  of  modern  times  as  the  Ital 
ians  vaunt  it  to  be,  is  certainly  very  grand.  I  have 
followed  the  movement  and  kept  the  meter  of  the 
Italian,  and  have  at  the  same  time  reproduced  it 
quite  literally ;  yet  I  feel  that  any  translation  of 
such  a  poem  is  only  a  little  better  than  none.  I 
think  I  have  caught  the  shadow  of  this  splendid 
lyric;  but  there  is  yet  no  photography  that  trans 
fers  the  splendor  itself,  the  life,  the  light,  the  color; 
I  can  give  you  the  meaning,  but  not  the  feeling, 
that  pervades  every  syllable  as  the  blood  warms 
every  fiber  of  a  man,  not  the  words  that  flashed 
upon  the  poet  as  he  wrote,  nor  the  yet  more  pre 
cious  and  inspired  words  that  came  afterward  to 
his  patient  waiting  and  pondering,  and  touched 
the  whole  with  fresh  delight  and  grace.  If  you 
will  take  any  familiar  passage  from  one  of  our 
poets  in  which  every  motion  of  the  music  is  en 
deared  by  long  association  and  remembrance,  and 
every  tone  is  sweet  upon  the  tongue,  and  substitute 
a  few  strange  words  for  the  original,  you  will  have 
some  notion  of  the  wrong  done  by  translation. 


THE   FIFTH   OF  MAY. 

He  passed  j  and  as  immovable 
As,  with  the  last  sigh  given, 

Lay  his  own  clay,  oblivious, 
From  that  great  spirit  riven, 


168  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

So  the  world  stricken  and  wondering 

Stands  at  the  tidings  dread: 
Mutely  pondering  the  ultimate 

Hour  of  that  fateful  being, 
And  in  the  vast  futurity 

No  peer  of  his  foreseeing 
Among  the  countless  myriads 

Her  blood-stained  dust  that  tread. 


Him  on  his  throne  and  glorious 

Silent  saw  I,  that  never  — 
When  with  awful  vicissitude 

He  sank,  rose,  fell  forever  — 
Mixed  my  voice  with  the  numberless 

Voices  that  pealed  on  high; 
Guiltless  of  servile  flattery 

And  of  the  scorn  of  coward, 
Come  I  when  darkness  suddenly 

On  so  great  light  hath  lowered, 
And  offer  a  song  at  his  sepulcher 
That  haply  shall  not  die. 

From  the  Alps  unto  the  Pyramids, 

From  Rhine  to  Manzanares 
Unfailingly  the  thunderstroke 

His  lightning  purpose  carries; 
Bursts  from  Scylla  to  Tanais, — 
From  one  to  the  other  sea. 
Was  it  true  glory?  —  Posterity, 

Thine  be  the  hard  decision; 
Bow  we  before  the  mightiest, 

Who  willed  in  him  the  vision 
Of  his  creative  majesty 

Most  grandly  traced  should  be. 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  169 

The  eager  and  tempestuous 

Joy  of  the  great  plan's  hour, 
The  throe  of  the  heart  that  controllessly 

Burns  with  a  dream  of  power, 
And  wins  it,  and  seizes  victory 

It  had  seemed  folly  to  hope  — 
All  he  hath  known :  the  infinite 

Rapture  after  the  danger, 
The  flight,  the  throne  of  sovereignty, 

The  salt  bread  of  the  stranger  j 
Twice  'neath  the  feet  of  the  worshipers, 
Twice  'neath  the  altar's  cope. 

He  spoke  his  name;  two  centuries, 

Armed  and  threatening  either, 
Turned  unto  him  submissively, 

As  waiting  fate  together; 
He  made  a  silence,  and  arbiter 

He  sat  between  the  two. 
He  vanished;  his  days  in  the  idleness 

Of  his  island-prison  spending, 
Mark  of  immense  malignity, 

And  of  a  pity  unending, 
Of  hatred  inappeasable, 

Of  deathless  love  and  true. 

As  on  the  head  of  the  mariner, 

Its  weight  some  billow  heaping, 
Falls  even  while  the  castaway, 

With  strained  sight  far  sweeping, 
Scanneth  the  empty  distances 

For  some  dim  sail  in  vain ; 
So  over  his  soul  the  memories 

Billowed  and  gathered  ever! 


170  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

How  oft  to  tell  posterity 

Himself  lie  did  endeavor, 
And  on  the  pages  helplessly 
Fell  his  weary  hand  again. 

How  many  times,  when  listlessly 

In  the  long,  dull  day's  declining  — 
Downcast  those  glances  fulminant, 

His  arms  on  his  breast  entwining  — 
He  stood  assailed  by  the  memories 

Of  days  that  were  passed  away  • 
He  thought  of  the  camps,  the  arduous 

Assaults,  the  shock  of  forces, 
The  lightning-flash  of  the  infantry, 

The  billowy  rush  of  horses, 
The  thrill  in  his  supremacy, 
The  eagerness  to  obey. 

Ah,  haply  in  so  great  agony 

His  panting  soul  had  ended 
Despairing,  but  that  potently 

A  hand,  from  heaven  extended, 
Into  a  clearer  atmosphere 

In  mercy  lifted  him. 
And  led  him  on  by  blossoming 

Pathways  of  hope  ascending 
To  deathless  fields,  to  happiness 

All  earthly  dreams  transcending, 
Where  in  the  glory  celestial 

Earth's  fame  is  dumb  and  dim. 

Beautiful,  deathless,  beneficent 
Faith !  used  to  triumphs,  even 

This  also  write  exultantly : 
No  loftier  pride  'neath  heaven 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  171 

Unto  the  shame  of  Calvary 

Stooped  ever  yet  its  crest. 
Thou  from  his  weary  mortality 

Disperse  all  bitter  passions: 
The  God  that  humbleth  and  hearteneth, 

That  comforts  and  that  chastens, 
Upon  the  pillow  else  desolate 
To  his  pale  lips  lay  pressed! 


J 


IX 


GIUSEPPE  ARNAUD  says  that  in  his  sacred  poetry 
Manzoni  gave  the  Catholic  dogmas  the  most  moral 
explanation,  in  the  most  attractive  poetical  lan 
guage  j  and  He  suggests  that  Manzoni  had  a 
patriotic  purpose  in  them,  or  at  least  a  sympathy 
with  the  effort  of  the  Romantic  writers  to  give 
priests  and  princes  assurance  that  patriotism  was 
religious,  and  thus  win  them  to  favor  the  Italian 
cause.  It  must  be  confessed  that  such  a  temporal 
design  as  this  would  fatally  affect  the  devotional 
quality  of  the  hymns,  even  if  the  poet's  conscious 
ness  did  not  j  but  I  am  not  able  to  see  any  evidence 
of  such  sympathy  in  the  poems  themselves.  I  de 
tect  there  a  perfectly  sincere  religious  feeling,  and 
nothing  of  devotional  rapture.  The  poet  had,  no 
doubt,  a  satisfaction  in  bringing  out  the  beauty 
and  sublimity  of  his  faith ;  and,  as  a  literary  artist, 


172  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

he  had  a  right  to  be  proud  of  his  work,  for  its 
spirit  is  one  of  which  the  timef  ul  piety  of  Italy  had 
long  been  void.  In  truth,  since  David,  king  of 
Israel,  left  making  psalms,  religious  songs  have 
been  poorer  than  any  other  sort  of  songs  j  and  it  is 
high  praise  of  Manzoni's  "  Inni  Sacri "  to  say  that 
they  are  in  irreproachable  taste,  and  unite  in  un 
affected  poetic  appreciation  of  the  grandeur  of 
Christianity  as  much  reason  as  may  coexist  with 
obedience. 

The  poetry  of  Manzoni  is  so  small  in  quantity, 
that  we  must  refer  chiefly  to  excellence  of  quality 
the  influence  and  the  fame  it  has  won  him,  though  I 
do  not  deny  that  his  success  may  have  been  partly 
owing  at  first  to  the  errors  of  the  school  which 
preceded  him.  It  could  be  easily  shown,  from  liter 
ary  history,  that  every  great  poet  has  appeared  at  a 
moment  fortunate  for  his  renown,  just  as  we  might 
prove,  from  natural  science,  that  it  is  felicitous  for 
the  sun  to  get  up  about  day-break.  Manzoni's  art 
was  very  great,  and  he  never  gave  his  thought  de- 
feetive  expression,  while  the  expression  was  always 
secondary  to  the_thought.  For  the  self-respect,  then, 
of  an  honest  man,  which  would  not  permit  him  to 
poetize  insincerity  and  shape  the  void,  and  for  the 
great  purpose  he  always  cherished  of  making  litera 
ture  an  agent  of  civilization  and  Christianity,  the 
Italians  are  right  to  honor  Manzoni.  Arnaud  thinks 
that  the  school  he  founded  lingered  too  long  on 
the  educative  and  religious  ground  he  chose  ;  and 
Marc  Monnier  declares  Manzoni  to  be  the  poet  of 
resignation,  thus  distinguishing  him  from  the  poets 


ALESSANDRO    MANZONI.  173 

of  revolution.  The  former  critic  is  the  nearer  right 
of  the  two,  though  neither  is  quite  just,  as  it  seems 
to  me  5  for  I  do  not  understand  how  any  one  can 
read  the  romance  and  the  dramas  of  Manzoni  with 
out  finding  him  full  of  sympathy  for  all  Italy  has 
suffered,  and  a  patriot  very  far  from  resigned  j  and 
I  think  political  conditions — or  the  Austrians  in 
Milan,  to  put  it  more  concretely — scarcely  left  to  the 
choice  of  the  Lombard  school  that  attitude  of  aggres 
sion  which  others  assumed  under  a  weaker,  if  not 
a  milder,  despotism  at  Florence.  The  utmost  allowed 
the  Milanese  poets  was  the  expression  of  a  retro 
spective  patriotism,  which  celebrated  the  glories  of 
Italy's  past,  which  deplored  her  errors,  and  which 
denounced  her  crimes,  and  thus  contributed  to 
keep  the  sense  of  nationality  alive.  Under  such 
governments  as  endured  in  Piedmont  until  1848, 
in  Lombardy  until  1859,  in  Venetia  until  1866, 
literature  must  remain  educative,  or  must  cease  to 
be.  In  the  works,  therefore,  of  Manzoni  and  of 
nearly  all  his  immediate  followers,  there  is  nothing 
directly  revolutionary  except  in  Giovanni  Berchet. 
The  line  between  them  and  the  directly  revolu 
tionary  poets  is  by  no  means  to  be  traced  with 
exactness,  however,  in  their  literature,  and  in  their 
lives  they  were  all  alike  patriotic. 

Manzoni  lived  to  see  all  his  hopes  fulfilled,  and 
died  two  years  after  the  fall  of  the  temporal  power, 
in  1873.  "  Toward  mid-day/7  says  a  Milanese 
journal  at  the  time  of  his  death,  "  he  turned  sud 
denly  to  the  household  friends  about  him,  and  said: 
1  This  man  is  failing — sinking — call  my  confessor !  > 


174  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  confessor  came,  and  lie  communed  with  him 
half  an  hour,  speaking,  as  usual,  from  a  mind  calm 
and  clear.  After  the  confessor  left  the  room,  Man- 
zoni  called  his  friends  and  said  to  them :  l  When 
I  am  dead,  do  what  I  did  every  day:  pray  for 
Italy — pray  for  the  king  and  his  family  — so  good 
to  me  !'  His  country  was  the  last  thought  of  this 
great  man  dying  as  in  his  whole  long  life  it  had 
been  his  most  vivid  and  constant  affection." 


SILVIO  PELLICO,  TOMMASO  GROSSI,  LUIGI 
CAREER,  AND  GIOVANNI  BERCHET 


As  I  have  noted,  nearly  all  the  poets  of  the 
Romantic  School  were  Lombards,  and  they  had 
nearly  all  lived  at  Milan  under  the  censorship  and 
espionage  of  the  Austrian  government.  What  sort 
of  life  this  must  have  been,  we,  born  and  reared  in 
a  free  country,  can  hardly  imagine.  We  have  no 
experience  by  which  we  can  judge  it,  and  we  never 
can  do  full  justice  to  the  intellectual  courage  and 
devotion  of  a  people  who,  amid  inconceivable  ob 
stacles  and  oppressions,  expressed  themselves  in  a 
new  and  vigorous  literature.  It  was  not,  I  have 
explained,  openly  revolutionary ;  but  whatever 
tended  to  make  men  think  and  feel  was  a  sort  of 
indirect  rebellion  against  Austria.  When  a  society 
of  learned  Milanese  gentlemen  once  presented  an 
address  to  the  Emperor,  he  replied,  with  brutal 
insolence,  that  he  wanted  obedient  subjects  in 
Italy,  nothing  more;  and  it  is  certain  that  the 
activity  of  the  Romantic  School  was  regarded  with 
jealousy  and  dislike  by  the  government  from  the 
first.  The  authorities  awaited  only  a  pretext  for 


176  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

striking  a  deadly  blow  at  the  poets  and  novelists, 
who  ought  to  have  been  satisfied  with  being  good 
subjects,  but  who,  instead,  must  needs  even  found 
a  newspaper,  and  discuss  in  it  projects  for  giving 
the  Italians  a  literary  life,  since  they  could  not 
have  a  political  existence.  The  perils  of  con 
tributing  to  the  Conciliators  were  such  as  would 
attend  house-breaking  and  horse-stealing  in  hap 
pier  countries  and  later  times.  The  government 
forbade  any  of  its  employees  to  write  for  it,  under 
pain  of  losing  their  places;  the  police,  through 
whose  hands  every  article  intended  for  publication 
had  to  pass,  not  only  struck  out  all  possibly  offen 
sive  expressions,  but  informed  one  of  the  authors 
that  if  his  articles  continued  to  come  to  them  so 
full  of  objectionable  things,  he  should  be  banished, 
even  though  those  things  never  reached  the  public. 
At  last  the  time  came  for  suppressing  this  jour 
nal  and  punishing  its  managers.  The  chief  editor 
was  a  young  Piedmontese  poet,  who  politically  was 
one  of  the  most  harmless  and  inoffensive  of  men  j 
his  literary  creed  obliged  him  to  choose  Italian  sub 
jects  for  his  poems,  and  he  thus  erred  by  mentioning 
Italy ;  yet  Arnaud,  in  his  "  Poeti  Patriottici,"  tells 
us  he  could  find  but  two  lines  from  which  this 
poet  could  be  suspected  of  patriotism,  and  he  alto 
gether  refuses  to  class  him  with  the  poets  who  have 
promoted  revolution.  Nevertheless,  it  is  probable 
that  this  poet  wished  Freedom  well.  He  was  indef 
initely  hopeful  for  Italy ;  he  was  young,  generous, 
and  credulous  of  goodness  and  justice.  His  youth, 
his  generosity,  his  truth,  made  him  odious  to  Aus- 


SILVIO    PELLICO.  177 

tria.  One  day  he  returned  from  a  visit  to  Turin, 
and  was  arrested.  He  could  have  escaped  when 
danger  first  threatened,  but  his  faith  in  his  own 
innocence  ruined  him.  After  a  tedious  imprison 
ment,  and  repeated  examinations  in  Milan,  he 
was  taken  to  Venice,  and  lodged  in  the  famous 
piomUj  or  cells  in  the  roof  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 
There,  after  long  delays,  he  had  his  trial,  and 
was  sentenced  to  twenty  years  in  the  prison  of 
Spielberg.  By  a  sort  of  poetical  license  which  the 
imperial  clemency  sometimes  used,  the  nights  were 
counted  as  days,  and  the  term  was  thus  reduced  to 
ten  years.  Many  other  young  and  gifted  Italians 
suffered  at  the  same  time  ;  most  of  them  came  to 
this  country  at  the  end  of  their  long  durance  j  this 
Piedmontese  poet  returned  to  his  own  city  of  Turin, 
an  old  and  broken-spirited  man,  doubting  of  the 
political  future,  and  half  a  Jesuit  in  religion.  He 
was  devastated,  and  for  once  a  cruel  injustice 
seemed  to  have  accomplished  its  purpose. 

Such  is  the  grim  outline  of  the  story  of  Silvio 
Pellico.  He  was  arrested  for  no  offense,  save  that 
he  was  an  Italian  and  an  intellectual  man ;  for  no 
other  offense  he  was  condemned  and  suffered.  His 
famous  book,  "  My  Prison s,"  is  the  touching  and  for 
giving  record  of  one  of  the  greatest  crimes  ever 
perpetrated. 

Few  have  borne  wrong  with  such  Christlike 
meekness  and  charity  as  Pellico.  One  cannot  read 
his  Prigioni  without  doing  homage  to  his  purity 
and  goodness,  and  cannot  turn  to  his  other  works 
without  the  misgiving  that  the  sole  poem  he  has 
8* 


178  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

left  the  world  is  the  story  of  his  most  fatal  and 
unmerited  suffering.  I  have  not  the  hardihood  to 
pretend  that  I  have  read  all  his  works.  I  must 
confess  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  do  so,  though 
I  came  to  their  perusal  inured  to  drought  by  travel 
through  Saharas  of  Italian  verse.  I  can  boast  only 
of  having  read  the  Francesca  da  Rimini,  among 
the  tragedies,  and  two  or  three  of  the  canticles, — 
or  romantic  stories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  blank 
verse, — which  now  refuse  to  be  identified.  I  know, 
from  a  despairing  reference  to  his  volume,  that  his 
remaining  poems  are  chiefly  of  a  religious  cast. 


n 


A  MUCH  better  poet  of  the  Romantic  School  was 
Tommaso  Grossi,  who,  like  Manzoni  and  Pellico, 
is  now  best  known  by  a  prose  work — a  novel  which 
enjoys  a  popularity  as  great  as  that  of  "  Le  Mie  Prig- 
ioni,"  and  which  has  been  nearly  as  much  read  in 
Italy  as  "I  Promessi  Sposi."  The  " Marco  Visconti" 
of  Grossi  is  a  romance  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  and 
though  not,  as  Cantu  says,  an  historic  "  episode^  bjit 
a  succession  of  episodes,  which  do  not  leave  a  gen 
eral  and  unique  impression, "it  yet  contrives  to  bring 
you  so  pleasantly  acquainted  with  the  splendid, 
squalid,  poetic,  miserable  Italian  life  in  Milan,  and 


TOMMASO  GROSSI. 


TOMMASO    GROSSI.  179 

on  its  neighboring  hills  and  lakes,  during  the  Mid 
dle  Ages,  that  you  cannot  help  reading  it  to  the 
end.  I  suppose  tha.t  this  is  the  highest  praise 
which  can  be  bestowed  upon  an  historical  romance, 
and  that  it  implies  great  charm  of  narrative  and 
beauty  of  style.  I  can  add,  that  the  feeling  of 
Grossi's  "  Marco  Visconti  "  is  genuine  and  exalted, 
and  that  its  morality  is  blameless.  It  has  scarcely 
the  right  to  be  analyzed  here,  however,  and  should 
not  have  been  more  than  mentioned,  but  for  the 
fact  that  it  chances  to  be  the  setting  of  the  author's 
best  thing  in  verse.  I  hope  that,  even  in  my  crude 
English  version,  the  artless  pathos  and  sweet  nat 
ural  grace  of  one  of  the  tenderest  little  songs  in 
any  tongue  have  not  wholly  perished. 

THE    FAIR    PRISONER    TO    THE    SWALLOW. 

Pilgrim  swallow !   pilgrim  swallow ! 

On  my  grated  window's  sill, 
Singing,  as  the  mornings  follow, 

Quaint  and  pensive  ditties  still, 
What  would'st  tell  me  in  thy  lay? 
Prithee,  pilgrim  swallow,  say! 

All  forgotten,  com'st  thou  hither 

Of  thy  tender  spouse  forlorn, 
That  we  two  may  grieve  together, 

Little  widow,  sorrow  worn? 
Grieve  then,  weep  then,  in  thy  lay! 
Pilgrim  swallow,  grieve  alway! 

Yet  a  lighter  woe  thou  weepest: 
Thou  at  least  art  free  of  wing, 


180  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

And  while  land  and  lake  thou  sweepest, 
May'st  make  heaven  with  sorrow  ring, 
Calling  his  dear  name  alway, 
Pilgrim  swallow,  in  thy  lay. 

Could  I  too !  that  am  forbidden 

By  this  low  and  narrow  cell, 
Whence  the  sun's  fair  light  is  hidden, 

Whence  thou  scarce  can'st  hear  me  tell 
Sorrows  that  I  breathe  alway, 
While  thou  pip'st  thy  plaintive  lay. 

Ah !  September  quickly  coming, 
Thou  shalt  take  farewell  of  me, 

And,  to  other  summers  roaming, 
Other  hills  and  waters  see, — 

Greeting  them  with  songs  more  gay, 

Pilgrim  swallow,  far  away. 

Still,  with  every  hopeless  morrow, 
While  I  ope  mine  eyes  in  tears, 

Sweetly  through  my  brooding  sorrow 
Thy  dear  song  shall  reach  mine  ears,— 

Pitying  me,  though  far  away, 

Pilgrim  swallow,  in  thy  lay. 

Thou,  when  thou  and  spring  together 
Here  return,  a  cross  shalt  see, — 

In  the  pleasant  evening  weather, 
Wheel  and  pipe,  here,  over  me ! 

Peace  and  peace !   the  coming  May, 

Sing  me  in  thy  roundelay! 

It  is  a  great  good  fortune  for  a  man  to  have  writ 
ten  a  thing  so  beautiful  as  this,  and  not  a  singular 
fortune  that  he  should  have  written  nothing  else 


TOMMASO    GROSSI.  181 

comparable  to  it.  The  like  happens  in  all  litera 
tures  ;  and  no  one  need  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
I  found  the  other  poems  of  Grossi  often  difficult, 
and  sometimes  almost  impossible  to  read. 

Grossi  was  born  in  1791,  at  Bellano,  by  lovely 
Como,  whose  hills  and  waters  he  remembers  in  all 
his  works  with  constant  affection.  He  studied  law 
at  the  University  of  Pavia,  but  went  early  to  Milan, 
where  he  cultivated  literature  rather  than  the  au- 
sterer  science  to  which  he  had  been  bred,  and  soon 
became  the  fashion,  writing  tales  in  Milanese  and 
Italian  verse,  and  making  the  women  cry  by  his 
pathetic  art  of  story-telling.  "  Ildegonda,'7  pub 
lished  in  1820,  was  the  most  popular  of  all  these 
tales,  and  won  Grossi  an  immense  number  of 
admirers,  every  one  (says  his  biographer  Cantu) 
of  the  fair  sex,  who  began  to  wear  Ildegonda 
dresses  and  Ildegonda  bonnets.  The  poem  was 
printed  and  reprinted;  it  is  the  heart-breaking 
story  of  a  poor  little  maiden  in  the  middle  ages, 
whom  her  father  and  brother  shut  up  in  a  convent 
because  she  is  in  love  with  the  right  person  and 
will  not  marry  the  wrong  one — a  common  thing  in 
all  ages.  The  cruel  abbess  and  wicked  nuns,  by 
the  order  of  Ildegonda's  family,  try  to  force  her 
to  take  the  veil  5  but  she,  supported  by  her  own 
repugnance  to  the  cloister,  and  by  the  secret  coun 
sels  of  one  of  the  sisters,  with  whom  force  had 
succeeded,  resists  persuasion,  reproach,  starvation, 
cold,  imprisonment,  and  chains.  Her  lover  attempts 
to  rescue  her  by  means  of  a  subterranean  vault 
under  the  convent ;  but  the  plot  is  discovered, 


182  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

and  the  unhappy  pair  are  assailed  by  armed  men  at 
the  very  moment  of  escape.  Ildegonda  is  dragged 
back  to  her  dungeon  $  and  Rizzardo,  already  under 
accusation  of  heresy,  is  quickly  convicted  and 
burnt  at  the  stake.  They  bring  the  poor  girl  word 
of  this,  and  her  sick  brain  turns.  In  her  delirium 
she  sees  her  lover  in  torment  for  his  heresy,  and, 
flying  from  the  hideous  apparition,  she  falls  and 
strikes  her  head  against  a  stone.  She  wakes  in  the 
arms  of  the  beloved  sister  who  had  always  be 
friended  her.  The  cruel  efforts  against  her  cease 
now,  and  she  writes  to  her  father  imploring  his 
pardon,  which  he  gives,  with  a  prayer  for  hers. 
At  last  she  dies  peacefully.  The  story  is  pathetic ; 
and  it  is  told  with  art,  though  its  lapses  of  taste 
are  woful,  and  its  faults  those  of  the  whole  class 
of  Italian  poetry  to  which  it  belongs.  The  agony  is 
tedious,  as  Italian  agony  is  apt  to  be,  the  passion  is 
outrageously  violent  or  excessively  tender,  the  de 
scription  too  often  prosaic;  the  effects  are  some 
times  produced  by  very  "  rough  magic."  The  more 
than  occasional  infelicity  and  awkwardness  of  dic 
tion  which  offend  in  Byron's  poetic  tales  are  not  felt 
so  much  in  those  of  Grossi ;  but  in  "  Ildegonda " 
there  is  horror  more  material  even  than  in  "  Pa- 
risina."  Here  is  a  picture  of  Eizzardo's  apparition, 
for  which  my  faint  English  has  no  stomach  : 

Ch&  dalla  bocca  fuori  gli  pendea 

La  coda  smisurata  d'  un  serpente, 

E  il  flagellava  per  la  faccia,  mentre 

II  capo  e  il  tronco  gli  scendean  nel  ventre. 


TOMMASO    GROSSI.  183 

Fischia  la  biscia  nell'  orribil  lutta 
Entro  il  ventre  profondo  del  dannato, 
Che  dalla  bocca  lacerata  erutta 
Un  torrente  di  sangue  aggmppato ; 
E  bava  gialla,  venenosa  e  brutta, 
Dalle  narici  fuor  manda  col  fiato, 
La  qual  pel  mento  giu  gli  cola,  e  lassa 
Insolcata  la  carne,  ovunque  passa. 

It  seems  to  have  been  the  fate  of  Gross!  as  a  poet 
to  achieve  fashion,  and  not  fame;  and  his  great 
poem  in  fifteen  cantos,  called  ''I  Lombardi  alia 
Prima  Crociata,"  which  made  so  great  a  noise  in 
its  day,  was  eclipsed  in  reputation  by  his  subse 
quent  novel  of  "  Marco  Visconti."  Since  the  "  Geru- 
salemma "  of  Tasso,  it  is  said  that  no  poem  has 
made  so  great  a  sensation  in  Italy  as  "  I  Lombardi," 
in  which  the  theme  treated  by  the  elder  poet  is  cel 
ebrated  according  to  the  aesthetics  of  the  Roman 
tic  School.  Such  parts  of  the  poem  as  I  have  read 
have  not  tempted  me  to  undertake  the  whole ;  but 
many  people  must  have  at  least  bought  it,  for  it 
gave  the  author  thirty  thousand  francs  in  solid 
proof  of  popularity. 

After  the  "  Marco  Visconti,"  Grossi  seems  to  have 
produced  no  work  of  importance.  He  married  late, 
but  happily ;  and  he  now  devoted  himself  almost 
exclusively  to  the  profession  of  the  law,  in  Milan, 
where  he  died  in  1853,  leaving  the  memory  of  a 
good  man,  and  the  fame  of  a  poet  unspotted  by  re 
proach.  As  long  as  he  lived,  he  was  the  beloved 
friend  of  Manzoni.  He  dwelt  many  years  under  the 


184  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

great  master's  roof,  subject  to  the  influence  of  the 
stronger  mind,  but  not  servile  to  it  ;  adopting  its 
literary  principles,  but  giving  them  his  own  ex 
pression. 


in 


LUIGI  CAREER  of  Venice  was  the  first  of  that  large 
number  of  minor  poets  and  dramatists  to  which 
the  states  of  the  old  Republic  have  given  birth 
during  the  present  century.  His  life  began  with 
our  century,  and  he  died  in  1850.  During  this  time 
he  witnessed  great  political  events — the  retire 
ment  of  the  French  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon  j  the 
failure  of  all  the  schemes  and  hopes  of  the  Carbo 
nari  to  shake  off  the  yoke  of  the  stranger  •  and  that 
revolution  in  1848  which  drove  out  the  Austrians, 
only  that,  a  year  later,  they  should  return  in  such 
force  as  to  make  the  hope  of  Venetian  independence 
through  the  valor  of  Venetian  arms  a  vain  dream 
forever.  There  is  not  wanting  evidence  of  a  tender 
love  of  country  in  the  poems  of  Carrer,  and  prob 
ably  the  effectiveness  of  the  Austrian  system  of 
repression,  rather  than  his  own  indifference,  is  wit 
nessed  by  the  fact  that  he  has  scarcely  a  line  to 
betray  a  hope  for  the  future,  or  a  consciousness  of 
political  anomaly  in  the  present. 

Carrer  was  poor,  but  the  rich  were  glad  to  be  his 
friends,  without  putting  him  to  shame ;  and  as  long 


LUIGI    CAREER.  185 

as  the  once  famous  conversazioni  were  held  in  the 
great  Venetian  houses,  he  was  the  star  of  what 
ever  place  assembled  genius  and  beauty.  He  had 
a  professorship  in  a  private  school,  and  while  he 
was  young  he  printed  his  verses  in  the  journals. 
As  he  grew  older,  he  wrote  graceful  books  of  prose, 
and  drew  his  slender  support  from  their  sale  and 
from  the  minute  pay  of  some  offices  in  the  gift  of 
his  native  city. 

Carrer's  ballads  are  esteemed  the  best  of  his 
poems ;  and  I  may  offer  an  idea  of  the  quality  and 
manner  of  some  of  his  ballads  by  the  following 
translation,  but  I  cannot  render  his  peculiar  ele 
gance,  nor  give  the  whole  range  of  his  fancy  : 

THE    DUCHESS. 

From  the  horrible  profound 

Of  the  voiceless  sepulcher 
Comes,  or  seems  to  come,  a  souikd; 

Is't  his  Grace,  the  Duke,  astir  V  " 
In  his  trance  he  hath  been  laid 
As  one  dead  among  the  dead! 

The  relentless,  stone  he  tries 
With  his  ujznost  strength  to  move  ; 

Fails,x  and  in  hi&  fury  cries,^, 

Smiting  nis  hands,  tKat  those  above, 

ft  any"siiall^l6e  passing  there, 

Hear  his  blasphemy,  or  his  prayer. 

And  at  last  he  seems  to  hear 

Light  feet  overhead  go  by; 
"0,  whoever  passes  near 

Where  I  am,  the  Duke  am  I! 


186  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

All  my  states  and  all  I  have 

To  him  that  takes  me  from  this  grave." 

There  is  no  one  that  replies; 

Surely,  some  one  seemed  to  come  ! 
On  his  brow  the  cold  sweat  lies, 

As  he  waits  an  instant  dumb; 
Then  he  cries  with  broken  breath, 
"  Save  me,  take  me  back  from  death ! " 

"  Where  thou  liest,  lie  thou  must, 
Prayers  and  curses  alike  are  vain : 

Over  thee  dead  Gismond's  dust — 

Whom  thy  pitiless  hand  hath  slain  — 

On  this  stone  so  heavily 

Rests,  we  cannot  set  thee  free." 

From  the  sepulcher's  thick  walls 
Comes  a  low  wail  of  tMsmay, 

And,  as  when  a  body  falls, 
A  dull  sound;  —  and  the  next  day 

In  a  convent  the  Duke's  wife 

Hideth  her  remorseful  life. 

Of  course,  Carrer  wrote  much  poetry  besides  his 
ballads.  There  are  idyls,  and  romances  in  verse, 
and  hymns ;  sonnets  of  feeling  and  of  occasion ; 
odes,  sometimes  of  considerable  beauty ;  apologues, 
of  such  exceeding  fineness  of  point,  that  it  often 
escapes  one  j  satires  and  essays,  or  sermoni,  some  of 
which  I  have  read  with  no  great  relish.  The  same 
spirit  dominates  nearly  all — the  spirit  of .  jjengive.. 
disappointment  which  life  brings  to  delicate  and 
sensitive  natures,  and  which  they  love  to  affect  even 


LUIGI    CAREER.  187 

more  than  they  feel.  Among  Carrer's  many  son 
nets,  I  think  I  like  best  the  following,  of  which  the 
sentiment  seems  to  me  simple  and  sweet,  and  the 
expression  very  winning : 

(j^- 

I  am  a  pilgrim  swallow,  and  I  roam 

Beyond  strange  seas,  of  other  lands  in  quest,  v 
Leaving  the  well-known  lakes  and  hills  of  home,  C(_ 

And  that  dear  roof  where  late  I  hung  my  nest  j  _$ 
All  things  beloved  and  love's  eternal  woes   cu 

I  fly,  an  exile  from  my  native  shore:       a_ 
I  cross  the  cliffs  and  woods,  but  with  me  goes    • 

The  care  I  thought  to  abandon  evermore. 
Along  the  banks  of  streams  unknown  to  me,   cu- 

I  pipe  the  elms  and  willows  pensive  lays,    oC 
And  call  on  her  whom  I  despair  to  see, 

And  pass  in  banishment  and  tears  my  days. 
Breathe,  air  of  spring,  for  which  I  pine  and  yearn. 
That  to  his  ne*st  the  swallow  may  return ! 

The  prose  writings  of  Carrer  are  essays  on  aesthet 
ics  and  morals,  and  sentimentalized  history.  His 
chief  work  is  of  the  latter  nature.  "  I  Sette  Gemm 
diVenezia"  are  sketches  of  the  lives  of  the  seven 
Venetian  women  who  have  done  most  to  distin 
guish  the  name  of  their  countrywomen  by  their 
talents,  or  misfortunes,  or  sins.  You  feel,  in  look 
ing  through  the  book,  that  its  interest  is  in  great 
part  factitious.  The  stories  are  all  expanded,  and 
filled  up  with  facile  but  not  very  relevant  discourse, 
which  a  pleasant  fancy  easily  supplies,  and  which 
is  always  best  left  to  the  reader's  own  thought. 
The  style  is  somewhat  florid ;  but  the  author  con- 


MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

trives  to  retain  in  his  fantastic  strain  much  of  the 
grace  of  simplicity.  It  is  the  work  of  a  cunning 
artist  5  but  it  has  a  certain  insipidity,  and  it  wea 
ries.  Carrer  did  well  in  the  limit  which  he  assigned 
himself,  but  his  range  was  circumscribed.  At  the 
time  of  his  death,  he  had  written  sixteen  cantos  of 
an  epic  poem  called  "  La  Fata  Vergine,"  which  a 
Venetian  critic  has  extravagantly  praised,  and 
which  I  have  not  seen.  He  exercised  upon  the 
poetry  of  his  day  an  influence  favorable  to  lyric 
naturalness,  and  his  ballads  were  long  popular. 


IV 


GIOVANNI  BEECHET  was  a  poet  who  alone  ought 
to  be  enough  to  take  from  the  Lombard  romanticists 
the  unjust  reproach  of  "  resignation."  "  Where  our 
poetry,"  says  De  Sanctis,  "  throws  off  every  dis 
guise,  romantic  or  classic,  is  in  the  verse  of  Berchet. 
...  If  Giovanni  Berchet  had  remained  in  Italy, 
probably  his  genius  would  have  remained  envel 
oped  in  the  allusions  and  shadows  of  romanticism. 
But  in  his  exile  at  London  he  uttered  the  sorrow 
and  the  wrath  of  his  betrayed  and  vanquished 
country.  It  was  the  accent  of  the  national  indig 
nation  which,  leaving  the  generalities  of  the  sonnets 


GIOVANNI    BERCHET.  189 

and  the  ballads,  dramatized  itself  and  portrayed 
our  life  in  its  most  touching  phases." 

Berchet's  family  was  of  French  origin,  but  he 
was  the  most  Italian  of  Italians,  and  nearly  all  his 
poems  are  of  an  ardent  political  tint  and  tempera 
ture.  Naturally,  he  spent  a  great  part  of  his  life 
in  exile  after  the  Austrians  were  reestablished  in 
Milan  ;  he  was  some  time  in  England,  and  I  believe 
he  died  in  Switzerland. 

I  have  most  of  his  patriotic  poems  in  a  little 
book  which  is  curiously  historical  of  a  situation 
forever  past.  I  picked  it  up,  I  do  not  remember 
where  or  when,  in  Venice ;  and  as  it  is  a  collection 
of  pieces  all  meant  to  embitter  the  spirit  against 
Austria,  it  had  doubtless  not  been  brought  into  the 
city  with  the  connivance  of  the  police.  There  is  no 
telling  where  it  was  printed,  the  mysterious  date 
of  publication  being  "  Italy,  1861,"  and  nothing 
more,  with  the  English  motto :  "  Adieu,  my  native 
land,  adieu ! " 

The  principal  poem  here  is  called  "  Le  Fantasie," 
and  consists  of  a  series  of  lyrics  in  which  an  Ital 
ian  exile  contrasts  the  Lombards,  who  drove  out 
Frederick  Barbarossa  in  the  twelfth  century,  with 
the  Lombards  of  1829,  who  crouched  under  the 
power  defied  of  old.  It  is  full  of  burning  re 
proaches,  sarcasms,  and  appeals  5  and  it  proba 
bly  had  some  influence  in  renewing  the  political 
agitation  which  in  Italy  followed  the  French  rev 
olution  of  1830.  Other  poems  of  Berchet  rep 
resent  social  aspects  of  the  Austrian  rule,  like 


190  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

one  entitled  "  Remorse/7  which  paints  the  isolation 
and  wretchedness  of  an  Italian  woman  married  to 
an  Austrian ;  and  another,  "  Giulia,"  which  gives 
a  picture  of  the  frantic  misery  of  an  Austrian  con 
scription  in  Italy.  A  very  impressive  poem  is 
that  called  "  The  Hermit  of  Mt.  Cenis."  A  trav 
eler  reaches  the  summit  of  the  pass,  and,  look 
ing  over  upon  the  beauty  and  magnificence  of 
the  Italian  plains,  and  seeing  only  their  loveli 
ness  and  peace,  his  face  is  lighted  up  with  an  in 
voluntary  smile,  when  suddenly  the  hermit  who 
knows  all  the  invisible  disaster  and  despair  of 
the  scene  suddenly  accosts  him  with,  "Accursed 
be  he  who  approaches  without  tears  this  home  of 
sorrow ! " 

At  the  time  the  Romantic  School  rose  in  Italian 
literature,  say  from  1815  till  1820,  society  was 
brilliant,  if  not  contented  or  happy.  In  Lom- 
bardy  and  Venetia,  immediately  after  the  treaties 
of  the  Holy  Alliance  had  consigned  these  prov 
inces  to  Austria,  there  flourished  famous  conver 
sazioni  at  many  noble  houses.  In  those  of  Milan 
many  distinguished  literary  men  of  other  nations 
met.  Byron  and  Hobhouse  were  frequenters  of  the 
same  salons  as  Pellico,  Manzoni,  and  Grossij  the 
Schlegels  represented  the  German  Romantic  School, 
and  Madame  de  Stael  the  sympathizing  movement 
in  France.  There  was  very  much  that  was  vicious 
still,  and  very  much  that  was  ignoble  in  Italian 
society,  but  this  was  by  sufferance  and  not  as  of 
old  by  approval ;  and  it  appears  that  the  tone  of 
the  highest  life  was  intellectual.  It  cannot  be 


GIOVANNI    BERCHET.  191 

claimed  that  this  tone  was  at  all  so  general  as  the 
badness  of  the  last  century.  It  was  not  so  easily 
imitated  as  that,  and  it  could  not  penetrate  so  subtly 
into  all  ranks  and  conditions.  Still  it  was  very  ob 
servable,  and  mingled  with  it  in  many  leading 
minds  was  the  strain  of  religious  resignation, 
audible  in  Manzoni's  poetry.  That  was  a  time 
when  the  Italians  might,  if  ever,  have  adapted 
themselves  to  foreign  rule  5  but  the  Austrians,  so 
far  from  having  learned  political  wisdom  during 
the  period  of  their  expulsion  from  Italy,  had  act 
ually  retrograded ;  from  being  passive  authorities 
whom  long  sojourn  was  gradually  Italianizing, 
they  had,  in  their  absence,  become  active  and  re 
lentless  tyrants,  and  they  now  seemed  to  study 
how  most  effectually  to  alienate  themselves.  They 
found  out  their  error  later,  but  when  too  late  to 
repair  it,  and  from  1820  until  1859  in  Milan,  and 
until  1866  in  Venice,  the  hatred,  which  they  had 
themselves  enkindled,  burned  fiercer  and  fiercer 
against  them.  It  is  not  extravagant  to  say  that  if 
their  rule  had  continued  a  hundred  years  longer 
the  Italians  would  never  have  been  reconciled  to 
it.  Society  took  the  form  of  habitual  and  implaca 
ble  defiance  to  them.  The  life  of  the  whole  people 
might  be  said  to  have  resolved  itself  into  a  pro 
test  against  their  presence.  This  hatred  was 
the  heritage  of  children  from  their  parents,  the 
bond  between  friends,  the  basis  of  social  faith; 
it  was  a  thread  even  in  the  tie  between  lovers ;  it 
was  so  intense  and  so  pervasive  that  it  cannot  be 
spoken. 


192  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Berchet  was  the  vividest,  if  not  the  earliest,  ex 
pression  of  it  in  literature,  and  the  following  poem, 
which  I  have  already  mentioned,  is,  therefore,  not 
only  intensely  true  to  Italian  feeling,  but  entirely 
realistic  in  its  truth  to  a  common  fact. 


REMORSE. 

Alone  in  the  midst  of  the  throng, 

'Mid  the  lights  and  the  splendor  alone, 
Her  eyes,  dropped  for  shame  of  her  wrong, 

She  lifts  not  to  eyes  she  has  known: 
Around  her  the  whirl  and  the  stir 

Of  the  light-footing  dancers  she  hears; 
None  seeks  her;   no  whisper  for  her 

Of  the  gracious  words  filling  her  ears. 

The  fair  boy  that  runs  to  her  knees, 

With  a  shout  for  his  mother,  and  kiss 
For  the  tear-drop  that  welling  he  sees 

To  her  eyes  from  her  sorrow's  abyss, — 
Though  he  blooms  like  a  rose,  the  fair  boy, 

No  praise  of  his  beauty  is  heard; 
None  with  him  stays  to  jest  or  to  toy, 

None  to  her  gives  a  smile  or  a  word. 

If,  unknowing,  one  ask  who  may  be 

This  woman,  that,  as  in  disgrace, 
O'er  the  curls  of  the  boy  at  her  knee 

Bows  her  beautiful,  joyless  face, 
A  hundred  tongues  answer  in  scorn, 

A  hundred  lips  teach  him  to  know  — 
"Wife  of  one  of  our  tyrants,  forsworn 

To  her  friends  in  her  truth  to  their  foe." 


GIOVANNI    BERCHET.  193 

At  the  play,  in  the  streets,  in  the  lanes, 

At  the  fane  of  the  merciful  God, 
'Midst  a  people  in  prison  and  chains, 

Spy-haunted,  at  home  and  abroad — 
Steals  through  all  like  the  hiss  of  a  snake 

Hate,  by  terror  itself  unsuppressed : 
"  Cursed  be  the  Italian  could  take 

The  Austrian  foe  to  her  breast!" 


Alone — but  the  absence  she  mourned 

As  widowhood  mourneth,  is  past: 
Her  heart  leaps  for  her  husband  returned 

From  his  garrison  far-off  at  last? 
Ah,  no!     For  this  woman  forlorn 

Love  is  dead,  she  has  felt  him  depart: 
With  far  other  thoughts  she  is  torn, 

Far  other  the  grief  at  her  heart. 

When  the  shame  that  has  darkened  her  days 

Fantasrnal  at  night  fills  the  gloom, 
When  her  soul,  lost  in  wildering  ways, 

Flies  the  past,  and  the  terror  to  come 

When  she  leaps  from  her  slumbers  to  hark, 

As  if  for  her  little  one's  call, 
It  is  then  to  the  pitiless  dark 

That  her  woe-burdened  soul  titters  all: 

"Woe  is  me!     It  was  God's  righteous  hand 
My  brain  with  its  madness  that  smote: 

At  the  alien's  flattering  command 
The  land  of  my  birth  I  forgot ! 

I,  the  girl  who  was  loved  and  adored, 
Feasted,  honored  in  every  place. 

Now  what  am  I?     The  apostate  abhorred, 

Who  was  false  to  her  home  and  her  race! 
9 


194  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

"  I  turned  from  the  common  disaster  ; 

My  brothers  oppressed  I  denied ; 
I  smiled  on  their  insolent  master; 

I  came  and  sat  down  by  his  side. 
Wretch!  a  mantle  of  shame  thou  hast  wrought; 

Thou  hast  wrought  it — it  clingeth  to  thee, 
And  for  all  that  thou  sufferest,  naught 

From  its  meshes  thy  spirit  can  free. 

"  Oh,  the  scorn  I  have  tasted !     They  know  not, 

Who  pour  it  on  me,  how  it  burns; 
How  it  galls  the  meek  spirit,  whose  woe  not 

Their  hating  with  hating  returns! 
Fool!    I  merit  it:  I  have  not  holden 

My  feet  from  their  paths!     Mine  the  blame: 
I  have  sought  in  their  eyes  to  embolden 

This  visage  devoted  to  shame ! 

"  Eejected  and  followed  with  scorn, 

My  child,  like  a  child  born  of  sin, 
In  the  land  where  my  ^darling  was  born, 

He  lives  exiled!     A  refuge  to  win 
From  their  hatred,  he  runs  in  dismay 

To  my  arms.     But  the  day  may  yet  be 
When  my  son  shall  the  insult  repay, 

I  have  nurtured  him  in,  unto  me ! 

"  If  it  chances  that  ever  the  slave 

Snaps  the  shackles  that  bind  him,  and  leaps 
Into  life  in  the  heart  of  the  brave 

The  sense  of  the  might  that  now  sleeps  — 
To  which  people,  which  side  shall  I  cleave? 

Which  fate  shall  I  curse  with  my  own? 
To  which  banner  pray  Heaven  to  give 

The  triumph  ?    Which  desire  o'erthrown  ? 


GIOVANNI    BERCHET.  195 

"  Italian,  and  sister,  and  wife, 

And  mother,  unfriended,  alone, 
Outcast,  I  wander  through  life, 

Over  shard  and  bramble  and  stone! 
Wretch!  a  mantle  of  shame  thou  hast  wrought; 

Thou  hast  wrought  it — it  clingeth  to  thee, 
And  for  all  that  thou  sufferest,  naught 

From  its  meshes  thy  spirit  shall  free ! " 


OIAMBATTISTA  NICCOLINI 


THE  school  of  Eomantic  poets  and  novelists  was 
practically  dispersed  by  the  Austrian  police  after 
the  Carbonari  disturbances  in  1821-22,  and  the 
literary  spirit  of  the  nation  took  refuge  under  the 
mild  and  careless  despotism  of  the  grand  dukes  at 
Florence. 

In  1821  Austria  was  mistress  of  pretty  near  all 
Italy.  She  held  in  her  own  grasp  the  vast  prov 
inces  of  Lombardy  and  Venetia ;  she  had  garrisons 
in  Naples,  Piedmont,  and  the  Eomagna ;  and  Rome 
was  ruled  according  to  her  will.  But  there  is 
always  something  fatally  defective  in  the  vigilance 
of  a  policeman  ;  and  in  the  very  place  which  per 
haps  Austria  thought  it  quite  needless  to  guard, 
the  restless  and  indomitable  spirit  of  free  thought 
entered.  It  was  in  Tuscany,  a  fief  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire,  reigned  over  by  a  family  set  on  the 
grand-ducal  throne  by  Austria  herself,  and  united 
to  her  Hapsburgs  by  many  ties  of  blood  and  affec 
tion  —  in  Tuscany,  right  under  both  noses  of  the 
double-headed  eagle,  as  it  were,  that  a  new  literary 
and  political  life  began  for  Italy.  The  Leopoldine 
code  was  famously  mild  toward  criminals,  and  the 
Lorrainese  princes  did  not  show  themselves  crueler 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  197 

than  they  could  help  toward  poets,  essayists,  his 
torians,  philologists,  and  that  class  of  malefactors. 
Indeed  it  was  the  philosophy  of  their  family  to  let 
matters  alone ;  and  the  grand  duke  restored  after 
the  fall  of  Napoleon  was,  as  has  been  said,  an  abso 
lute  monarch,  but  he  was  also  an  honest  man.  This 
galantuomo  had  even  a  minister  who  successfully 
combated  the  Austrian  influences,  and  so,  though 
there  were,  of  course,  spies  and  a  censorship  in 
Florence,  there  was  also  indulgence ;  and  if  it  was 
not  altogether  a  pleasant  place  for  literary  men  to 
live,  it  was  at  least  tolerable,  and  there  they  gath 
ered  from  their  exile  and  their  silence  throughout 
Italy.  Their  point  of  union,  and  their  means  of 
affecting  the  popular  mind,  was  for  twelve  years 
the  critical  journal  entitled  the  Antologia,  founded 
by  that  Vieusseux  who  also  opened  those  delightful 
and  beneficent  reading-rooms  whither  we  all  rush, 
as  soon  as  we  reach  Florence,  to  look  at  the  news 
papers  and  magazines  of  our  native  land.  The 
Antologia  had  at  last  the  misfortune  to  offend  the 
Emperor  of  Russia,  and  to  do  that  prince  a  pleasure 
the  Tuscan  government  suppressed  it :  such  being 
the  international  amenities  when  sovereigns  really 
reigned  in  Europe.  After  the  Antologia  there  came 
another  review,  published  at  Leghorn,  but  it  was 
not  so  successful,  and  in  fact  the  conditions  of 
literature  gradually  grew  more  irksome  in  Tuscany, 
until  the  violent  liberation  came  in  ?48,  and  a  little 
later  the  violent  reenslavement. 

Giambattista  Niccolini,  like  nearly  all  the  poets 
of  his  time  and  country,  was  of  noble  birth,  his 


198  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

father  being  a  cavaliere,  and  holding:  a  small  gov 
ernment  office  at  San  G-iuliano,  near  Pistoja.  Here, 
in  1782,  Niceolini  was  born  to  very  decided  penury. 
His  father  had  only  that  little  office,  and  his  in 
come  died  with  him ;  the  mother  had  nothing  — 
possibly  because  she  was  descended  from  a  poet, 
the  famous  Filicaja.  From  his  mother,  doubtless, 
Niccoliui  inherited  his  power,  and  perhaps  his 
patriotism.  But  little  or  nothing  is  known  of  his 
early  life.  It  is  certain,  merely,  that  after  leaving 
school,  he  continued  his  studies  in  the  University 
of  Pisa,  and  that  he  very  soon  showed  himself  a 
poet.  His  first  published  effort  was  a  sort  of 
lamentation  over  an  epidemic  that  desolated  Tus 
cany  in  1804,  and  this  was  followed  by  five  or  six 
pretty  thoroughly  forgotten  tragedies  in  the  classic 
or  Alfierian  manner.  Of  these,  only  the  Nedea  is 
still  played,  but  they  all  made  a  stir  in  their  time ; 
and  for  another  he  was  crowned  by  the  Accademia 
della  Crusca,  which  I  suppose  does  not  mean  a 
great  deal.  The  fact  that  Niceolini  early  caught 
the  attention  and  won  the  praises  of  Ugo  Foscolo 
is  more  important.  There  grew  up,  indeed,  be 
tween  the  two  poets  such  esteem  that  the  elder  at 
this  time  dedicated  one  of  his  books  to  the  younger, 
and  their  friendship  continued  through  life. 

When  Elisa  Bonaparte  was  made  queen  of  Etru- 
ria  by  Napoleon,  Niceolini  became  secretary  of  the 
Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  and  professor  of  history 
and  mythology.  It  is  said,  that  in  the  latter  capac 
ity  he  instilled  into  his  hearers  his  own  notions  of 
liberty  and  civic  virtue.  He  was,  in  truth,  a  demo- 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  199 

erat,  and  he  suffered  with  the  other  Jacobins, 
as  they  were  called  in  Italy,  when  the  Napoleonic 
governments  were  overthrown.  The  benefits  which 
the  French  Revolution  conferred  upon  the  people 
of  their  conquered  provinces  when  not  very  doubt 
ful  were  still  such  as  they  were  not  prepared  to 
receive;  and  after  the  withdrawal  of  the  French 
support,  all  the  Italians  through  whom  they  had 
ruled  fell  a  prey  to  the  popular  hate  and  contumely. 
In  those  days  when  dynasties,  restored  to  their 
thrones  after  the  lapse  of  a  score  of  years,  ignored 
the  intervening  period  and  treated  all  its  events  as 
if  they  had  no  bearing  upon  the  future,  it  was 
thought  the  part  of  the  true  friends  of  order  to  re 
sume  the  old  fashions  which  went  out  with  the  old 
regime.  The  queue,  or  pigtail,  had  always  been 
worn,  when  it  was  safe  to  wear  it,  by  the  supporters 
of  religion  and  good  government  (from  this  fashion 
came  the  famous  political  nickname  codino,  pigtail- 
wearer,  or  conservative,  which  used  to  occur  so 
often  in  Italian  talk  and  literature),  and  now  who 
ever  appeared  on  the  street  without  this  emblem  of 
loyalty  and  piety  was  in  danger  of  public  outrage. 
A  great  many  Jacobins  bowed  their  heads  to  the 
popular  will,  and  had  pigtails  sewed  on  them  —  a 
device  which  the  idle  boys  and  other  unemployed 
friends  of  legitimacy  busied  themselves  in  detecting. 
They  laid  rude  hands  on  this  ornament  singing, 

If  the  queue  remains  in  your  hand, 

A  true  republican  is  he; 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 

Give  him  a  kick  for  liberty. 


200  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

It  is  related  that  the  superficial  and  occasional 
character  of  NiccolinPs  conversation  was  discov 
ered  by  this  test,  and  that  he  underwent  the 
apposite  penalty.  He  rebelled  against  the  treat 
ment  he  received,  and  was  arrested  and  imprisoned 
for  his  contumacy.  When  Ferdinando  III.  had 
returned  and  established  his  government  on  the 
let-alone  principle  to  which  I  have  alluded,  the 
dramatist  was  made  librarian  of  the  Palatine  Li 
brary  at  the  Pitti  Palace,  but  he  could  not  endure 
the  necessary  attendance  at  court,  where  his  politics 
were  remembered  against  him  by  the  courtiers,  and 
he  gave  up  the  place.  The  grand  duke  was  sorry, 
and  said  so,  adding  that  he  was  perfectly  contented. 
"Your  Highness,"  answered  the  poet,  "in  this  case 
it  takes  two  to  be  contented." 


n 


THE  first  political  tragedy  of  Niccolini  was  the 
Nebuchadnezzar,  which  was  printed  in  London  in 
1819,  and  figured,  under  that  Scriptural  disguise, 
the  career  of  Napoleon.  After  that  came  his 
Antonio  Foscarini,  in  which  the  poet,  who  had 
heretofore  been  a  classicist,  tried  to  reconcile  that 
school  with  the  romantic  by  violating  the  sacred 
unities  in  a  moderate  manner.  In  his  subsequent 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  201 

tragedies  lie  seems  not  to  have  regarded  them  at 
all,  and  to  have  been  romantic  as  the  most  roman 
tic  Lombard  of  them  all  could  have  asked.  Of 
course,  his  defection  gave  exquisite  pain  to  the 
lovers  of  Italian  good  taste,  as  the  classicists  called 
themselves,  but  these  were  finally  silenced  by  the 
success  of  his  tragedy.  The  reader  of  it  nowadays, 
we  suspect,  will  think  its  success  not  very  expen 
sively  achieved,  and  it  certainly  has  a  main  fault 
that  makes  it  strangely  disagreeable.  When  the 
past  was  chiefly  the  affair  of  fable,  the  storehouse 
of  tradition,  it  was  well  enough  for  the  poet  to 
take  historical  events  and  figures,  and  fashion  them 
in  any  way  that  served  his  purpose  ;  but  this  will 
not  do  in  our  modern  daylight,  where  a  freedom 
with  the  truth  is  an  offense  against  common  knowl 
edge,  and  does  not  charm  the  fancy,  but  painfully 
bewilders  it  at  the  best,  and  at  the  second  best  is 
impudent  and  ludicrous.  In  his  tragedy,  Niccolini 
takes  two  very  familiar  incidents  of  Venetian  his 
tory  :  that  of  the  Foscari,  which  Byron  has  used ; 
and  that  of  Antonio  Foscarini,  who  was  unjustly 
hanged  more  than  a  hundred  years  later  for  privity 
to  a  conspiracy  against  the  state,  whereas  the  attrib 
utive  crime  of  Jacopo  Foscari  was  the  assassina 
tion  of  a  fellow-patrician.  The  poet  is  then  forced 
to  make  the  Doge  Foscari  do  duty  throughout 
as  the  father  of  Foscarini,  the  only  doge  of  whose 
name  served  out  his  term  very  peaceably,  and  died 
the  author  of  an  extremely  dull  official  history  of 
Venetian  literature.  Foscarini,  who,  up  to  the  time 
of  his  hanging,  was  an  honored  servant  of  the  state, 


202  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

arid  had  been  ambassador  to  France,  is  obliged, 
on  his  part,  to  undergo  all  of  Jacopo  Foscari's 
troubles ;  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  why  the 
poet  should  have  vexed  himself  to  make  all  this 
confusion,  and  why  the  story  of  the  Foscari  was 
not  sufficient  for  his  purpose.  In  the  tragedy  there 
is  much  denunciation  of  the  oligarchic  oppression 
of  the  Ten  in  Venice,  and  it  may  be  regarded  as 
the  first  of  Niccolini's  dramatic  appeals  to  the  love 
of  freedom  and  the  manhood  of  the  Italians. 

It  is  much  easier  to  understand  the  success  of 
Niccolini's  subsequent  drama,  Lodovico  il  Moro, 
which  is  in  many  respects  a  touching  and  effective 
tragedy,  and  the  historical  truth  is  better  observed 
in  it  j  though,  as  none  of  our  race  can  ever  love  his 
country  with  that  passionate  and  personal  devo 
tion  which  the  Italians  feel,  we  shall  never  relish 
the  high  patriotic  flavor  of  the  piece.  The  story  is 
simply  that  of  Giovan-Graleazzo  Sforza,  Duke  of 
Milan,  whose  uncle,  Lodovico,  on  pretense  of  reliev 
ing  him  of  the  cares  of  government,  has  usurped 
the  sovereignty,  and  keeps  Graleazzo  and  his  wife 
in  virtual  imprisonment,  the  young  duke  wasting 
away  with  a  slow  but  fatal  malady.  To  further  his 
ambitious  schemes  in  Lombardy,  Lodovico  has 
called  in  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  who  claims  the 
crown  of  Naples  against  the  Aragonese  family,  and 
pauses,  on  his  way  to  Naples,  at  Milan.  Isabella, 
wife  of  Galeazzo,  appeals  to  Charles  to  liberate 
them,  but  reaches  his  presence  in  such  an  irregular 
way  that  she  is  suspected  of  treason  both  to  her 
husband  and  to  Charles.  Yet  the  king  is  convinced 


tflAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  203 

of  her  innocence,  and  he  places  the  sick  duke  under 
the  protection  of  a  French  garrison,  and  continues 
his  march  on  Naples.  Lodovico  has  appeared  to 
consent,  but  by  seeming  to  favor  the  popular  lead 
ers  has  procured  the  citizens  to  insist  upon  his 
remaining  in  power ;  he  has  also  secretly  received 
the  investiture  from  the  Emperor  of  G-ermany,  to 
be  published  upon  the  death  of  Galeazzo.  He  now, 
therefore,  defies  the  French ;  Galeazzo,  tormented 
by  alternate  hope  and  despair,  dies  suddenly ;  and 
Lodovico,  throwing  off  the  mask  of  a  popular  ruler, 
puts  the  republican  leaders  to  death,  and  reigns  the 
feudatory  of  the  Emperor.  The  interest  of  the 
play  is  almost  entirely  political,  and  patriotism  is 
the  chief  passion  involved.  The  main  personal 
attraction  of  the  tragedy  is  in  the  love  of  Galeazzo 
and  his  wife,  and  in  the  character  of  the  latter  the 
dreamy  languor  of  a  hopeless  invalid  is  delicately 
painted. 

The  Giovanni  da  Procida  was  a  further  advance 
in  political  literature.  In  this  tragedy,  abandoning 
the  indirectly  liberal  teachings  of  the  Foscarini, 
Niccolini  set  himself  to  the  purpose  of  awakening 
a  Tuscan  hatred  of  foreign  rule.  The  subject  is 
the  expulsion  of  the  French  from  Sicily  j  and  when 
the  French  ambassador  complained  to  the  Austrian 
that  such  a  play  should  be  tolerated  by  the  Tuscan 
government,  the  Austrian  answered,  "  The  address 
is  to  the  French,  but  the  letter  is  for  the  Germans." 
The  Giovanni  da  Procida  was  a  further  develop 
ment  of  Niccoliui's  political  purposes  in  literature, 
and  at  the  time  of  its  first  representation  it  raised 


204  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

the  Florentines  to  a  frenzy  of  theater-going  patriot 
ism.  The  tragedy  ends  with  the  terrible  Sicilian 
Vespers,  but  its  main  affair  is  with  preceding 
events,  largely  imagined  by  the  poet,  and  the  per 
sons  are  in  great  part  fictitious ;  yet  they  all  bear  a 
certain  relation  to  fact,  and  the  historical  persons 
are  more  or  less  historically  painted.  Giovanni  da 
Procida,  a  great  Sicilian  nobleman,  believed  dead 
by  the  French,  comes  home  to  Palermo,  after  long 
exile,  to  stir  up  the  Sicilians  to  rebellion,  and  finds 
that  his  daughter  is  married  to  the  son  of  one  of 
the  French  rulers,  though  neither  this  daughter 
Imelda  nor  her  husband  Tancredi  knew  the  origin 
of  the  latter  at  the  time  of  their  marriage.  Procida, 
in  his  all-absorbing  hate  of  the  oppressors,  cannot 
forgive  them ;  yet  he  seizes  Tancredi,  and  imprisons 
him  in  his  castle,  in  order  to  save  his  life  from  the 
impending  massacre  of  the  French ;  and  in  a  scene 
with  Imelda,  he  tells  her  that,  while  she  was  a  babe, 
the  father  of  Tancredi  had  abducted  her  mother 
and  carried  her  to  France.  Years  after,  she  re 
turned  heart-broken  to  die  in  her  husband's  arms,  a 
secret  which  she  tries  to  reveal  perishing  with  her. 
While  Imelda  remains  horror-struck  by  this  his 
tory,  Procida  receives  an  intercepted  letter  from 
Eriberto,  Tancredi's  father,  in  which  he  tells  the 
young  man  that  he  and  Imelda  are  children  of  the 
same  mother.  Procida  in  pity  of  his  daughter,  the 
victim  of  this  awful  fatality,  prepares  to  send  her 
away  to  a  convent  in  Pisa ;  but  a  French  law  for 
bids  any  ship  to  sail  at  that  time,  and  Imelda  is 
brought  back  and  confronted  in  a  public  place  with 
Tancredi,  who  has  been  rescued  by  the  French. 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  205 

He  claims  her  as  his  wife,  but  she,  filled  with  the 
horror  of  what  she  knows,  declares  that  he  is  not 
her  husband.  It  is  the  moment  of  the  Vespers,  and 
Tancredi  falls  among  the  first  slain  by  the  Sicilians. 
He  implores  Imelda  for  a  last  kiss,  but  wildly 
answering  that  they  are  brother  and  sister,  she 
swoons  away,  while  Tancredi  dies  in  this  climax  of 
self-loathing  and  despair.  The  management  of  a 
plot  so  terrible  is  very  simple.  The  feelings  of 
the  characters  in  the  hideous  maze  which  involves 
them  are  given  only  such  expression  as  should 
come  from  those  utterly  broken  by  their  calamity. 
Imelda  swoons  when  she  hears  the  letter  of  Eriberto 
declaring  the  fatal  tie  of  blood  that  binds  her  to 
her  husband,  and  forever  separates  her  from  him. 
"When  she  is  restored,  she  finds  her  father  weeping 
over  her,  and  says : 

Ah,  them  dost  look  on  me 
And  weep !    At  least  this  comfort  I  can  feel 
In  the  horror  of  my  state :  thou  canst  not  hate 
A  woman  so  unhappy.     .     .     .     . 
.     .     .     .     Oh,  from  all 
Be  hid  the  atrocity!  to  some  holy  shelter 
Let  me  be  taken  far  from  hence.     I  feel 
Naught  can  be  more  than  my  calamity, 
Saving  God's  pity.    I  have  no  father  now, 
Nor  child,  nor  husband  (heavens,  what  do  I  say1? 
He  is  my  brother  now!   and  well  I  know 
I  must  not  ask  to  see  him  more).     I,  living,  lose 
Everything  death  robs  other  women  of. 

By  far  the  greater  feeling  and  passion  are  shown 
in  the  passages  describing  the  wrongs  which  the 
Sicilians  have  suffered  from  the  French,  and  ex- 


206  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

pressing  the  aspiration  and  hate  of  Procida  and 
his  fellow-patriots.  Niccoliui  does  not  often  use 
pathos,  and  he  is  on  that  account  perhaps  the  more 
effective  in  the  use  of  it.  However  this  may  be, 
I  find  it  very  touching  when,  after  coming  back 
from  his  long  exile,  Procida  says  to  Imelda,  who 
is  trembling  for  the  secret  of  her  marriage  amidst 
her  joy  in  his  return : 

C-  Daughter,  art  thou  still 
So  sad?     I  have  not  heard  yet  from  thy  lips 

A  word  of  the  old  love 

.     .     .     .     Ah,  thou  knowest  not 

What  sweetness  hath  the  natal  spot,  how  many 

The  longings  exile  hath  j  how  heavy  't  is 

To  arrive  at  doors  of  homes  where  no  one  waits  thee  ! 

Imelda,  thou  may'st  abandon  thine  own  land, 

But  not  forget  her;  I,  a  pilgrim,  saw 

Many  a  city ;  but  none  among  them  had 

A  memory  that  spoke  unto  my  heart ; 

And  fairer  still  than  any  other  seemed 

The  country  whither  still  my  spirit  turned. 

In  a  vein  as  fierce  and  passionate  as  this  is  ten 
der,  Procida  relates  how,  returning  to  Sicily  when 
he  was  believed  dead  by  the  French,  he  passed  in 
secret  over  the  island  and  inflamed  Italian  hatred 
of  the  foreigners : 

I  sought  the  pathless  woods, 

And  drew  the  cowards  thence  and  made  them  blush, 
And  then  made  fury  follow  on  their  shame. 
I  hailed  the  peasant  in  his  fertile  fields, 
Where,  'neath  the  burden  of  the  cruel  tribute, 
He  dropped  from  famine  'midst  the  harvest  sheaves, 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  207 

With  his  starved  brood :  "  Open  thou  with  thy  scythe 

The  breasts  of  Frenchmen;  let  the  earth  no  more 

Be  fertile  to  our  tyrants."     I  found  my  way 

In  palaces,  in  hovels;  tranquil,  I 

Both  great  and  lowly  did  make  drunk  with  rage. 

I  knew  the  art  to  call  forth  cruel  tears 

In  every  eye,  to  wake  in  every  heart 

A  love  of  slaughter,  a  ferocious  need 

Of  blood.    And  in  a  thousand  strong  right  hands 

Glitter  the  arms  I  gave. 

In  the  last  act  occurs  one,  of  those  lyrical  pas 
sages  in  which  Niccolini  excels,  and  two  lines  from 
this  chorus  are  among  the  most  famous  in  modern 
Italian  poetry : 

Perche  tanto  sorriso  del  cielo 
Sulla  terra  del  vile  dolor0? 

The  scene  is  in  a  public  place  in  Palermo,  and 
the  time  is  the  moment  before  the  massacre  of  the 
French  begins.  A  chorus  of  Sicilian  poets  remind  the 
people  of  their  sorrows  and  degradation,  and  sing : 

The  wind  vexes  the  forest  no  longer, 
In  the  sunshine  the  leaflets  expand : 
With  barrenness  cursed  be  the  land 

That  is  bathed  with  the  sweat  of  the  slave! 

On  the  fields  now  the  harvests  are  waving, 
On  the  fields  that  our  blood  has  made  red; 
Harvests  grown  for  our  enemy's  bread 

From  the  bones  of  our  children  they  wave ! 

With  a  veil  of  black  clouds  would  the  tempest 
Might  the  face  of  this  Italy  cover ; 
Why  should  Heaven  smile  so  glorious  over 

The  land  of  our  infamous  woe? 


208  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

All  nature  is  suddenly  wakened, 

Here  in  slumbers  unending  man  sleeps; 
Dust  trod  evermore  by  the  steps 

Of  ever-strange  lords  lie  lies  low! 

"  With  this  tragedy,'7  says  an  Italian  biographer 
of  Niccolini,  "  the  poet  potently  touched  all  chords 
of  the  human  heart,  from  the  most  impassioned 
love  to  the  most  implacable  hate.  .  .  .  The  en 
thusiasm  rose  to  the  greatest  height,  and  for  as 
many  nights  of  the  severe  winter  of  1830  as  the 
tragedy  was  given,  the  theater  was  always  thronged 
by  the  overflowing  audience ;  the  doors  of  the  Co- 
comero  were  opened  to  the  impatient  people  many 
hours  before  the  spectacle  began.  Spectators 
thought  themselves  fortunate  to  secure  a  seat  next 
the  roof  of  the  theater ;  even  in  the  prompter's  hole  * 
places  were  sought  to  witness  the  admired  work. 
....  And  whilst  they  wept  over  the  ill-starred  love 
of  Imelda,  and  all  hearts  palpitated  in  the  touching 
situation  of  the  drama, —  where  the  public  and  the 
personal  interests  so  wonderfully  blended,  and  the 
vengeance  of  a  people  mingled  with  that  of  a  man 
outraged  in  the  most  sacred  affections  of  the  heart, 
—  Procida  rose  terrible  as  the  billows  of  his  sea, 
imprecating  before  all  the  wrongs  of  their  oppressed 
country,  in  whatever  servitude  inflicted,  by  what 
ever  aliens,  among  all  those  that  had  trampled, 
derided,  and  martyred  her,  and  raising  the  cry  of 

*  On  the  Italian  stage  the  prompter  rises  from  a  hole  in 
the  floor  behind  the  foot-lights,  and  is  hidden  from  the  audi 
ence  merely  by  a  canvas  shade. 


GIAMBATTISTA  NICCOLINI. 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  209 

resistance  which  stirred  the  heart  of  all  Italy.  At 
the  picture  of  the  abject  sufferings  of  their  com 
mon  country,  the  whole  audience  rose  and  repeated 
with  tears  of  rage: 

'Why  should  heaven  smile  so  glorious  over 
The  land  of  our  infamous  woe  ? '  " 

By  the  year  1837  had  begun  the  singular  illusion 
of  the  Italians,  that  their  freedom  and  unity  were 
to  be  accomplished  through  a  liberal  and  patriotic 
Pope.  Niccolini,  however,  never  was  cheated  by  it, 
though  he  was  very  much  disgusted,  and  he  retired, 
not  only  from  the  political  agitation,  but  almost 
from  the  world.  He  was  seldom  seen  upon  the 
street,  but  to  those  who  had  access  to  him  he  did 
not  fail  to  express  all  the  contempt  and  distrust  he 
felt.  "A  liberal  Pope  !  a  liberal  Pope  ! 7?  he  said, 
with  a  scornful  enjoyment  of  that  contradiction  in 
terms.  He  was  thoroughly  Florentine  and  Tuscan 
in  his  anti-papal  spirit,  and  he  was  faithful  in  it 
to  the  tradition  of  Dante,  Petrarch,  Machiavelli, 
Guicciardini,  and  Alfieri,  who  all  doubted  and  com 
bated  the  papal  influence  as  necessarily  fatal  to 
Italian  hopes.  In  1843  he  published  his  great  and 
principal  tragedy,  Arnaldo  da  Brescia,  which  was 
a  response  to  the  ideas  of  the  papal  school  of 
patriots.  In  due  time  Pius  IX.  justified  Niccolini, 
and  all  others  that  distrusted  him,  by  turning  his 
back  npon  the  revolution,  which  belief  in  him,  more 
than  anything  else,  had  excited. 

The  tragedies  which  succeeded  the  Arnaldo  were 
the  Filippo  Strozzij  published  in  1847  j  the  Beatrice 


210  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 


i-i  a  version  from  the  English  of  Shelley,  and 
the  Mario  e  i  Cimbri. 

A  part  of  the  Arnaldo  da  Brescia  was  performed 
in  Florence  in  1858,  not  long  before  the  war  which 
has  finally  established  Italian  freedom.  The  name 
of  the  Cocomero  theater  had  been  changed  to  the 
Teatro  Niceolini,  and,  in  spite  of  the  governmental 
anxiety  and  opposition,  the  occasion  was  made  a 
popular  demonstration  in  favor  of  Niccolini?s  ideas 
as  well  as  himself.  His  biographer  says:  "The 
audience  now  maintained  a  religious  silence  j  now, 
moved  by  irresistible  force,  broke  out  into  uproari 
ous  applause  as  the  eloquent  protests  of  the  friar 
and  the  insolent  responses  of  the  Pope  awakened 
their  interest;  for  Italy  then,  like  the  unhappy 
martyr,  had  risen  to  proclaim  the  decline  of  that 
monstrous  power  which,  in  the  name  of  a  religion 
profaned  by  it,  sanctifies  its  own  illegitimate  and 
feudal  origin,  its  abuses,  its  pride,  its  vices,  its 
crimes.  It  was  a  beautiful  and  affecting  spectacle 
to  see  the  illustrious  poet  receiving  the  warm  con 
gratulations  of  his  fellow-citizens,  who  enthusias 
tically  recognized  in  him  the  utterer  of  so  many 
lofty  truths  and  the  prophet  of  Italy.  That  night 
Niccolini  was  accompanied  to  his  house  by  the  ap 
plauding  multitude."  And  if  all  this  was  a  good 
deal  like  the  honors  the  Florentines  were  accus 
tomed  to  pay  to  a  very  pretty  ballerina  or  a  suc 
cessful  prima  donna,  there  is  no  doubt  that  a  poet  is 
much  worthier  the  popular  frenzy  ;  and  it  is  a  pity 
that  the  forms  of  popular  frenzy  have  to  be  so 
cheapened  by  frequent  use.  The  two  remaining 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  211 

years  of  Niccolini's  life  were  spent  in  great  retire 
ment,  and  in  a  satisfaction  with  the  fortunes  of 
Italy  which  was  only  marred  by  the  fact  that  the 
French  still  remained  in  Rome,  and  that  the  tem 
poral  power  yet  stood.  He  died  in  1861. 


in 


THE  work  of  Niccolini  in  which  he  has  poured 
out  all  the  lifelong  hatred  and  distrust  he  had  felt 
for  the  temporal  power  of  the  popes  is  the  Arnaldo 
da  Brescia.  This  we  shall  best  understand  through 
a  sketch  of  the  life  of  Arnaldo,  who  is  really  one 
of  the  most  heroic  figures  of  the  past,  deserving  to 
rank  far  above  Savonarola,  and  with  the  leaders  of 
the  Reformation,  though  he  preceded  these  nearly 
four  hundred  years.  He  was  born  in  Brescia  of 
Lombardy,  about  the  year  1105,  and  was  partly 
educated  in  France,  in  the  school  of  the  famous 
Abelard.  He  early  embraced  the  ecclesiastical  life, 
and,  when  he  returned  to  his  own  country,  entered  a 
convent,  but  not  to  waste  his  time  in  idleness  and 
the  corruptions  of  his  order.  In  fact,  he  began  at 
once  to  preach  against  these,  and  against  the  usur 
pation  of  temporal  power  by  all  the  great  and  little 
dignitaries  of  the  Church.  He  thus  identified  him- 


212  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

self  with  the  democratic  side  in  politics,  which  was 
then  locally  arrayed  against  the  bishop  aspiring 
to  rule  Brescia.  Arnaldo  denounced  the  political 
power  of  the  Pope,  as  well  as  that  of  the  prelates ; 
and  the  bishop,  making  this  known  to  the  pontiff 
at  Rome,  had  sufficient  influence  to  procure  a  sen 
tence  against  Arnaldo  as  a  schismatic,  and  an  order 
enjoining  silence  upon  him.  He  was  also  banished 
from  Italy;  whereupon,  retiring  to  France,  he  got 
himself  into  further  trouble  by  aiding  Abelard  in 
the  defense  of  his  teachings,  which  had  been 
attainted  of  heresy.  Both  Abelard  and  Arnaldo 
were  at  this  time  bitterly  persecuted  by  St.  Ber 
nard,  and  Arnaldo  took  refuge  in  Switzerland, 
whence,  after  several  years,  he  passed  to  Rome,  and 
there  began  to  assume  an  active  part  in  the  popu 
lar  movements  against  the  papal  rule.  He  was 
an  ardent  republican,  and  was  a  useful  and  effi 
cient  partisan,  teaching  openly  that,  whilst  the 
Pope  was  to  be  respected  in  all  spiritual  things,  he 
was  not  to  be  recognized  at  all  as  a  temporal  prince. 
When  the  English  monk,  Nicholas  Breakspear,  be 
came  Pope  Adrian  IV.,  he  excommunicated  and 
banished  Arnaldo ;  but  Arnaldo,  protected  by  the 
senate  and  certain  powerful  nobles,  remained  at 
Rome  in  spite  of  the  Pope's  decree,  and  disputed 
the  lawfulness  of  the  excommunication.  Finally, 
the  whole  city  was  laid  under  interdict  until  Arnaldo 
should  be  driven  out.  Holy  Week  was  drawing 
near ;  the  people  were  eager  to  have  their  churches 
thrown  open  and  to  witness  the  usual  shows  and 


GIAMBATTISTA   NICCOLINI.  213 

splendors,  and  they  consented  to  the  exile  of  their 
leader.  The  followers  of  a  cardinal  arrested  him, 
but  he  was  rescued  by  his  friends,  certain  counts  of 
the  Campagna,  who  held  him  for  a  saint,  and  who 
now  lodged  him  safely  in  one  of  their  castles.  The 
Emperor  Frederick  Barbarossa,  coming  to  Rome  to 
assume  the  imperial  crown,  was  met  by  embassies 
from  both  parties  in  the  city.  He  warmly  favored 
that  of  the  Pope,  and  not  only  received  that  of  the 
people  very  coldly,  but  arrested  one  of  the  counts 
who  had  rescued  Arnaldo,  and  forced  him  to  name 
the  castle  in  which  the  monk  lay  concealed.  Arnaldo 
was  then  given  into  the  hands  of  the  cardinals,  and 
these  delivered  him  to  the  prefect  of  Rome,  who 
caused  him  to  be  hanged,  his  body  to  be  burned 
upon  a  spit,  and  his  ashes  to  be  scattered  in  the 
Tiber,  that  the  people  might  not  venerate  his  relics 
as  those  of  a  saint.  "  This  happened,"  says  the 
priest  Giovanni  Battista  Guadagnini,  of  Brescia, 
whose  Life,  published  in  1790,  I  have  made  use 
of — "  this  happened  in  the  year  1155  before  the  18th 
of  June,  previous  to  the  coronation  of  Frederick, 
Arnaldo  being,  according  to  my  thinking,  fifty  years 
of  age.  His  eloquence/7  continues  Guadagnini,  "  was 
celebrated  by  his  enemies  themselves ;  the  exem- 
plarity  of  his  life  was  superior  to  their  malignity, 
constraining  them  all  to  silence,  although  they  were 
in  such  great  number,  and  it  received  a  splendid 
eulogy  from  St.  Bernard,  the  luminary  of  that  cent 
ury,  who,  being  strongly  impressed  against  him, 
condemned  him  first  as  a  schismatic,  and  then  for 


214  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

the  affair  of  the  Council  of  Sens  (the  defense  of 
Abelard),  persecuted  him  as  a  heretic,  and  then  had 
finally  nothing  to  say  against  him.  His  courage 
and  his  zeal  for  the  discipline  of  the  Church  have 
been  sufficiently  attested  by  the  toils,  the  persecu 
tions,  and  the  death  which  he  underwent  for  that 
cause." 


IV 


THE  scene  of  the  first  act  of  Niccolini's  trag 
edy  is  near  the  Capitol ine  Hill,  in  Rome,  where  two 
rival  leaders,  Frangipani  and  Giordano  Pierleone, 
are  disputing  in  the  midst  of  their  adherents.  The 
former  is  a  supporter  of  the  papal  usurpations; 
the  latter  is  a  republican  chief,  who  has  been  ex 
communicated  for  his  politics,  and  is  also  under 
sentence  of  banishment  j  but  who,  like  Arnaldo, 
remains  in  Eome  in  spite  of  Church  and  State. 
Giordano  withdraws  to  the  Campidoglio  with  his 
adherents,  and  there  Arnaldo  suddenly  appears 
among  them.  When  the  people  ask  what  cure 
there  is  for  their  troubles,  Arnaldo  answers,  in 
denunciation  of  the  papacy : 

Liberty  and  God. 
A  voice  from  the  orient, 
A  voice  from  the  Occident, 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  215 

A  voice  from  thy  deserts, 

A  voice  of  echoes  from  the  open  graves, 

Accuses  thee,  thou  shameless  harlot !     Drunk 

Art  thou  with  blood  of  saints,  and  thou  hast  lain 

With  all  the  kings  of  earth.     Ah,  you  behold  her! 

She  is  clothed  on  with  purple;  gold  and  pearls 

And  gems  are  heaped  upon  her;  and  her  vestments 

Once  white,  the  pleasure  of  her  former  spouse, 

That  now  's  in  heaven,  she  has  dragged  in  dust. 

Lo,  is  she  full  of  names  and  blasphemies, 

And  on  her  brow  is  written  Mystery! 

Ah,  nevermore  you  hear  her  voice  console 

The  afflicted;  all  she  threatens,  and  creates 

"With  her  perennial  curse  in  trembling  souls 

Ineffable  pangs;  the  unhappy  —  as  we  here 

Are  all  of  us  —  fly  in  their  common  sorrows 

To  embrace  each  other;  she,  the  cruel  one, 

Sunders  them  in  the  name  of  Jesus;  fathers 

She  kindles  against  sons,  and  wives  she  parts 

From  husbands,  and  she  makes  a  war  between 

Harmonious  brothers;  of  the  Evangel  she 

Is  cruel  interpreter,  and  teaches  hate 

Out  of  the  book  of  love.     The  years  are  come 

Whereof  the  rapt  Evangelist  of  Patmos 

Did  prophesy;  and,  to  deceive  the  people, 

"Satan  has  broken  the  chains  he  bore  of  old; 

And  she,  the  cruel,  on  the  infinite  waters 

Of  tears  that  are  poured  out  for  her,  sits  throned. 

The  enemy  of  man  two  goblets  places 

Unto  her  shameless  lips;  and  one  is  blood, 

And  gold  is  in  the  other ;  greedy  and  fierce 

She  drinks  so  from  them  both,  the  world  knows  not 

If  she  of  blood  or  gold  have  greater  thirst.  .  .  . 

Lord,  those  that  fled  before  thy  scourge  of  old 

No  longer  stand  to  barter  offerings 


216  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

About  thy  temple's  borders,  but  within 

Man's  self  is  sold,  and  thine  own  blood  is  trafficked, 

Thou  son  of  God! 

The  people  ask  Arnaldo  what  he  counsels  them 
to  do,  and  he  advises  them  to  restore  the  senate 
and  the  tribunes,  appealing  to  the  glorious  mem 
ories  of  the  place  where  they  stand,  the  Capitoline 
Hill: 

Where  the  earth  calls  at  every  step,  "Oh,  pause, 
Thou  treadest  on  a  hero!" 

They  desire  to  make  him  a  tribune,  but  he  refuses, 
promising,  however,  that  he  will  not  withhold  his 
counsel.  Whilst  he  speaks,  some  cardinals,  with 
nobles  of  the  papal  party,  appear,  and  announce  the 
election  of  the  new  Pope,  Adrian.  "  What  is  his 
name?"  the  people  demand;  and  a  cardinal  answers, 
"  Breakspear,  a  Briton."  Griordano  exclaims  : 

Impious  race!  you've  chosen  Borne  for  shepherd 
A  cruel  barbarian,  and  even  his  name 
Tortures  our  ears. 

Arnaldo.  I  never  care  to  ask 

Where  popes  are  born;  and  from  long  suffering, 
You,  Romans,  before  heaven,  .should  have  learnt 
That  priests  can  have  no  country.  .  .  . 
I  know  this  man ;  his  father  was  a  thrall, 
And  he  is  fit  to  be  a  slave.     He  made 
Friends  with  the  Norman  that  enslaves  his  country  5 
A  wandering  beggar  to  Avignon's  cloisters 
He  came  in  boyhood  and  was  known  to  do 
All  abject  services;  there  those  false  monks 
He  with  astute  humility  cajoled; 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  217 

He  learned  their  arts,  and  'mid  intrigues  and  hates 
He  rose  at  last  out  of  his  native  filth 
A  tyrant  of  the  vile. 

The  cardinals,  confounded  by  Arnaldo's  presence 
and  invectives,  withdraw,  but  leave  one  of  their 
party  to  work  on  the  fears  of  the  Romans,  and 
make  them  return  to  their  allegiance  by  pictures 
of  the  desolating  war  which  Barbarossa,  now  ap 
proaching  Rome  to  support  Adrian,  has  waged 
upon  the  rebellious  Lombards  at  Rosate  and  else 
where.  Arnaldo  replies :  — 

Romans, 

I  will  tell  all  the  things  that  he  has  hid; 
I  know  not  how  to  cheat  you.    Yes,  Rosate 
.A  ruin  is,  from  which  the  smoke  ascends. 
The  bishop,  lord  of  Monferrato,  guided 
The  German  arms  against  Chieri  and  Asti, 
Now  turned  to  dust  ;   that  shepherd  pitiless 
Did  thus  avenge  his  own  offenses  on 
His  flying  flocks;   himself  with  torches  armed 
The  German  hand;  houses  and  churches  saw 
Destroyed,  and  gave  his  blessing  on  the  flames. 
This  is  the  pardon  that  you  may  expect 
From  mitered  tyrants.     A  heap  of  ashes  now 
Crowneth  the  hill  where  once  Tortona  stood; 
And  drunken  with  her, wine  and  with  her  blood, 
Fallen  there  amidst  their  spoil  upon  the  dead, 
Slept  the  wild  beasts  of  Germany:   like  ghosts 
Dim  wandering  through  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Those  that  were  left  by  famine  and  the  sword, 
Hidden  within  the  heart  of  thy  dim  caverns, 
Desolate  city!  rose  and  turned  their  steps 
Noiselessly  toward  compassionate  Milan. 
10 


218  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

There  they  have  borne  their  swords  and  hopes:   I  see 

A  thousand  heroes  born  from  the  example 

Tortona  gave.     0  city,  if  I  could, 

O  sacred  city!   upon  thy  ruins  fall 

Reverently,  and  take  them  in  my  loving  arms, 

The  relics  of  thy  brave  I  'd  gather  up 

In  precious  urns,  and  from  the  altars  here 

In  days  of  battle  offer  to  be  kissed! 

Oh,  praise  be  to  the  Lord!     Men  die  no  more 

For  chains  and  errors;   martyrs  now  at  last 

Hast  thou,  0  holy  Freedom;   and  fain  were  I 

Ashes  for  thee ! — But  I  see  you  grow  pale, 

Ye  Romans!     Down,  go  down;   this  holy  height 

Is  not  for  cowards.     In  the  valley  there 

Your  tyrant  waits  you;   go  and  fall  before  him 

And  cover  his  haughty  foot  with  tears  and  kisses. 

He  '11  tread  you  in  the  dust,  and  then  absolve  you. 

The  People.  The  arms  we  have  are  strange  and  few. 

Our  walls 
Are  fallen  and  ruinous. 

Arnaldo.  Their  hearts  are  walls 

Unto  the  brave.  .  .  . 

And  they  shall  rise  again, 
The  walls  that  blood  of  freemen  has  baptized, 
But  among  slaves  their  ruins  are  eternal. 

People.  You  outrage  us,  sir! 

Arnaldo.  Wherefore  do  ye  tremble 

Before  the  trumpet  sounds?     0  thou  that  wast 
Once  the  world's  lord  and  first  in  Italy, 
Wilt  thou  be  now  the  last? 

People.   No  more!     Cease,  or  thou  diest! 

Arnaldo,  having  roused  the  pride  of  the  Romans, 
now  tells  them  that  two  thousand  Swiss  have  fol 
lowed  him  from  his  exile ;  and  the  act  closes  with 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  219 

some  lyrical  passages  leading  to  the  fraternization 
of  the  people  with  these. 

The  second  act  of  this  curious  tragedy,  where 
there  may  be  said  to  be  scarcely  any  personal  in 
terest,  but  where  we  are  aware  of  such  an  impas 
sioned  treatment  of  public   interests  as  perhaps 
never  was  before,  opens  with  a  scene  between  the 
Pope  Adrian  and  the  Cardinal  Guido.     The  char 
acter  of  both  is  finely  studied  by  the  poet;  and 
Guido,  the  type  of  ecclesiastical  submission,  has 
not  more  faith  in  the  sacredness  and  righteousness 
of  Adrian,  than  Adrian,  the  type  of  ecclesiastical 
ambition,  has  in  himself.     The  Pope  tells  Guido 
that  he  stands  doubting  between  the  cities  of  Lom- 
bardy  leagued  against  Frederick,  and  Frederick, 
who  is  coming  to  Rome,  not  so  much  to  befriend  the 
papacy  as  to  place  himself  in  a  better  attitude  to 
crush  the  Lombards.     The  German  dreams  of  the 
restoration  of  Charlemagne's  empire;  he  believes 
the  Church  corrupt ;  and  he  and  Arnaldo  would  be 
friends,  if  it  were  not  for  Arnaldo's  vain  hope  of 
reestablishing  the  republican   liberties   of   Rome. 
The  Pope  utters  his  ardent  desire  to  bring  Arnaldo 
back  to  his  allegiance;  and  when  Guido  reminds 
him  that  Arnaldo  has  been  condemned  by  a  coun 
cil  of  the  Church,  and  that  it  is  scarcely  in  his 
power  to  restore  him,  Adrian  turns  upon  him : 

What  sayest  them? 

I  can  do  all.     Dare  the  audacious  members 
Rebel  against  the  head?    Within  these  hands 
Lie  not  the  keys  that  once  were  given  to  Peter? 
The  heavens  repeat  as  't  were  the  word  of  God, 


220  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

My  word  that  here  has  power  to  loose  and  bind. 
Arnaldo  did  not  dare  so  much.     The  kingdom 
Of  earth  alone  he  did  deny  me.     Thou 
Art  more  outside  the  Church  than  he. 

Guido  (kneeling  at  Adrian's  feet).     0  God, 
I  erred  j   forgive !     I  rise  not  from  thy  feet 
Till  thou  absolve  me.     My  zeal  blinded  me. 
I  'm  clay  before  thee;   shape  me  as  thou  wilt, 
A  vessel  apt  to  glory  or  to  shame. 

Guido  then  withdraws  at  the  Pope's  bidding,  in 
order  to  send  a  messenger  to  Arnaldo,  and  Adrian 
utters  this  fine  soliloquy : 

At  every  step  by  which  I  've  hither  climbed 

I  've  found  a  sorrow;   but  upon  the  summit 

All  sorrows  are;   and  thorns  more  thickly  spring 

Around  my  chair  than  ever  round  a  throne. 

"What  weary  toil  to  keep  up  from  the  dust 

This  mantle  that 's  weighed  down  the  strongest  limbs ! 

These  splendid  gems  that  blaze  in  my  tiara, 

They  are  a  fire  that  burns  the  aching  brow, 

I  lift  with  many  tears,  0  Lord,  to  thee ! 

Yet  I  must  fear  not;   He  that  did  know  how 

To  bear  the  cross,  so  heavy  with  the  sins 

Of  all  the  world,  will  succor  the  weak  servant 

That  represents  his  power  here  on  earth. 

O  silences  of  the  cloister,  0  ye  mists 

Of  mine  own  isle  that  make  the  light  o'  the  sun 

Obscure  as  one  day  was  my  lot,  amidst 

The  furious  tumults  of  this  guilty  Rome, 

Here,  under  the  superb  effulgency 

Of  burning  skies,  I  think  of  you  and  weep ! 

The  Pope's  messenger  finds  Arnaldo  in  the  castle 
of  Giordano,  where  these  two  are  talking  of  the 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINL  221 

present  fortunes  and  future  chances  of  Rome.  The 
patrician  forebodes  evil  from  the  approach  of  the 
emperor,  but  Arnaldo  encourages  him,  and,  when 
the  Pope's  messenger  appears,  he  is  eager  to  go  to 
Adrian,  believing  that  good  to  their  cause  will  come 
of  it.  Giordano  in  vain  warns  him  against  treach 
ery,  bidding  him  remember  that  Adrian  will  hold 
any  falsehood  sacred  that  is  used  with  a  heretic.  It 
is  observable  throughout  that  Niccolini  is  always 
careful  to  make  his  rebellious  priest  a  good  Catho 
lic  ;  and  now  Arnaldo  rebukes  Giordano  for  some 
doubts  of  the  spiritual  authority  of  the  Pope. 
When  Giordano  says : 

These  modern  pharisees,  upon  the  cross 

Where  Christ  hung  dying  once,  have  nailed  mankind, 

Arnaldo  answers : 

He  will  know  how  to  save  that  rose  and  conquered; 

And  Giordano  replies : 

Yes,  Christ  arose ;   but  Freedom  cannot  break 
The  stone  that  shuts  her  ancient  sepulcher, 
For  on  it  stands  the  altar. 

Adrian,  when  Arnaldo  appears  before  him,  bids 
him  fall  down  and  kiss  his  feet,  and  speak  to  him 
as  to  God ;  he  will  hear  Arnaldo  only  as  a  penitent. 
Arnaldo  answers : 

The  feet 

Of  his  disciples  did  that  meek  One  kiss 
Whom  here  thou  representest.     But  I  hear 
Now  from  thy  lips  the  voice  of  fiercest  pride. 


222  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Repent,  0  Peter,  that  deniest  him, 

And  near  the  temple  art,  but  far  from  God! 

The  name  of  Mng 

Is  never  heard  in  Rome.    And  if  thou  art 
The  vicar  of  Christ  on  earth,  well  should'st  thou  know 
That  of  thorns  only  was  the  crown  he  wore. 

Adrian.   He  gave  to  me  the  empire  of  the  earth 
When  this  great  mantle  I  put  on,  and  took 
The  Church's  high  seat  I  was  chosen  to; 
The  word  of  God  did  erst  create  the  world, 
And  now  mine  guides  it.     Would'st  thou  that  the  soul 
Should  serve  the  body?    Thou  dost  dream  of  freedom, 
And  makest  war  on  him  who  sole  on  earth 
Can  shield  man  from  his  tyrants.     0  Arnaldo, 
Be  wise;   believe  me,  all  thy  words  are  vain, 
Vain  sounds  that  perish  or  disperse  themselves 
Amidst  the  wilderness  of  Eome.     I  only 
Can  speak  the  words  that  the  whole  world  repeats. 

Arnaldo.   Thy  words  were  never  Freedom's;   placed 

between 

The  people  and  their  tyrants,  still  the  Church 
With  the  weak  cruel,  with  the  mighty  vile, 
Has  been,  and  crushed  in  pitiless  embraces 
That  emperors  and  pontiffs  have  exchanged, 
Man  has  been  ever. 

Why  seek'st  thou  empire  here,  and  great  on  earth 
Art  mean  in  heaven?    Ah!  vainly  in  thy  prayer 
Thou  criest,  "  Let  the  heart  be  lifted  up ! " 
'T  is  ever  bowed  to  earth. 

Now,  then,  if  thou  wilt, 
Put  forth  the  power  that  thou  dost  vaunt;   repress 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  223 

The  crimes  of  bishops,  make  the  Church  ashamed 

To  be  a  step-mother  to  the  poor  and  lowly. 

In  all  the  Lombard  cities  every  priest 

Has  grown  a  despot,  in  shrewd  perfidy 

Now  siding  with  the  Church,  now  with  the  Empire. 

They  have  dainty  food,  magnificent  apparel, 

Lascivious  joys,  and  on  their  altars  cold 

Gathers  the  dust,  where  lies  the  miter  dropt, 

Forgotten,  from  the  haughty  brow  that  wears 

The  helmet,  and  no  longer  bows  itself 

Before  God's  face  in  th'  empty  sanctuaries; 

But  upon  the  fields  of  slaughter,  smoking  still, 

Bends  o'er  the  fallen  foe,  and  aims  the  blows 

O'  th'  sacrilegious  sword,  with  cruel  triumph 

Insulting  o'er  the  prayers  of  dying  men. 

There  the  priest  rides  o'er  breasts  of  fallen  foes, 

And  stains  with  blood  his  courser's  iron  heel. 

When  comes  a  brief,  false  peace,  and  wearily 

Amidst  the  havoc  doth  the  priest  sit  down, 

His  pleasures  are  a  crime,  and  after  rapine 

Luxury  follows.    Like  a  thief  he  climbs 

Into  the  fold,  and  that  desired  by  day 

He  dares  amid  the  dark,  and  violence 

Is  the  priest's  marriage.     Vainly  did  Rome  hope 

That  they  had  thrown  aside  the  burden  vile 

Of  the  desires  that  weigh  down  other  men. 

Theirs  is  the  ungrateful  lust  of  the  wild  beast, 

That  doth  forget  the  mother  nor  knows  the  child. 

....     On  the  altar  of  Christ, 

Who  is  the  prince  of  pardon  and  of  peace, 

Vows  of  revenge  are  registered,  and  torches 

That  are  thrown  into  hearts  of  leaguered  cities 

Are  lit  from  tapers  burning  before  God. 

Become  thou  king  of  sacrifice;   ascend 

The  holy  hill  of  God;   on  these  perverse 


224  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Launch  thou  thy  thunderbolts;   and  feared  again 
And  great  thou  wilt  be.     Tell  me,  Adrian, 
Must  thou  not  bear  a  burden  that  were  heavy 
Even  for  angels'?    Wherefore  wilt  thou  join 
Death  unto  life,  and  make  the  word  of  God, 
That  says,  "My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world," 
A  lie?    Oh,  follow  Christ's  example  here 
In  Rome;   it  pleased  both  God  and  her 
To  abase  the  proud  and  to  uplift  the  weak. 
I  '11  kiss  the  foot  that  treads  on  kings ! 

Adrian.  Arnaldo, 

I  parley  not,  I  rule;   and  I,  become 
On  earth  as  God  in  heaven,  am  judge  of  all, 
And  none  of  me;   I  watch,  and  I  dispense 
Terrors  and  hopes,  rewards  and  punishments, 
To  peoples  and  to  kings;   fountain  and  source 
Of  life  am  I,  who  make  the  Church  of  God 
One  and  all-powerful.     Many  thrones  and  peoples 
She  has  seen  tost  upon  the  madding  waves 
Of  time,  and  broken  on  the  immovable  rock 
Whereon  she  sits;   and  since  one  errless  spirit 
Rules  in  her  evermore,  she  doth  not  rave 
For  changeful  doctrine,  but  she  keeps  eternal 
The  grandeur  of  her  will  and  purposes. 
.     .     .     .    Arnaldo, 

Thou  movest  me  to  pity.     In  vain  thou  seek'st 
To  warm  thy  heart  over  these  ruins,  groping 
Among  the  sepulchers  of  Rome.     Thou 'It  find 
No  bones  to  which  thou  canst  say,  "Rise!"  Ah,  here 
Remaineth  not  one  hero's  dust.     Thou  thinkest 
That  with  old  names  old  virtues  shall  return? 
And  thou  desirest  tribunes,  senators, 
Equestrian  orders,  Rome!     A  greater  glory 
Thy  sovereign  pontiff  is  who  doth  not  guard 
The  rights  uncertain  of  a  crazy  rabble; 
But  tribune  of  the  world  he  sits  in  Rome, 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  225 

And  u  I  forbid,"  to  kings  and  peoples  cries. 
I  tell  thee  a  greater  than  the  impious  power 
That  thou  in  vain  endeavorest  to  renew 
Here  built  the  dying  fisherman  of  Judea. 
Out  of  his  blood  he  made  a  fatherland 
For  all  the  nations,  and  this  place,  that  once 
A  city  was,  became  a  world ;   the  borders 
That  did  divide  the  nations,  by  Christ's  law 
Are  ta'en  away,  and  this  the  kingdom  is 
For  which  he  asked  his  Father  in  his  prayer. 
The  Church  has  sons  in  every  race;    I  rule, 
An  unseen  king,  and  Rome  is  everywhere ! 

Arnaldo.    Thou  errest,  Adrian.     Rome's  thunderbolts 
Wake  little  terror  now,  and  reason  shakes 
The  bonds  that  thou  fain  would'st  were  everlasting.- 
.     .     .    .     Christ  calls  to  her 
As  of  old  to  the  sick  man,  "Rise  and  walk." 
She  '11  tread  on  you  if  you  go  not  before. 
The  world  has  other  truth  besides  the  altar's. 
It  will  not  have  a  temple  that  hides  heaven. 
Thou  wast  a  shepherd:   be  a  father.     The  race 
Of  man  is  weary  of  being  called  a  flock. 

Adrian's  final  reply  is,  that  if  Arnaldo  will  re 
nounce  his  false  doctrine  and  leave  Rome,  the  Pope 
will,  through  him,  give  the  Lombard  cities  a  liberty 
that  shall  not  offend  the  Church.  Arnaldo  refuses, 
and  quits  Adrian's  presence.  It  is  quite  needless 
to  note  the  bold  character  of  the  thought  here,  or 
the  nobility  of  the  poetry,  which  Niccolini  puts  as 
well  into  the  mouth  of  the  Pope  whom  he  hates  as 
the  monk  whom  he  loves. 

Following  this  scene  is  one  of  greater  dramatic 
force,  in  which  the  Cardinal  Guido,  sent  to  the 
Campidoglio  by  the  Pope  to  disperse  the  popular 
10* 


226  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

assembly,  is  stoned  by  the  people  and  killed.  He 
dies  full  of  faith  in  the  Church  and  the  righteous 
ness  of  his  cause,  and  his  body,  taken  up  by  the 
priests,  is  carried  into  the  square  before  St.  Peter's. 
A  throng,  including  many  women,  has  followed  5 
and  now  Niccolini  introduces  a  phase  of  the  great 
Italian  struggle  which  was  perhaps  the  most  per 
plexing  of  all.  The  subjection  of  the  women  to  the 
priests  is  what  has  always  greatly  contributed  to 
defeat  Italian  efforts  for  reform;  it  now  helps  to 
unnerve  the  Roman  multitude  j  and  the  poet  finally 
makes  it  the  weakness  through  which  Arnaldo  is 
dealt  his  death.  With  a  few  strokes  in  the  scene 
that  follows  the  death  of  Guido,  he  indicates  the 
remorse  and  dismay  of  the  people  when  the  Pope 
repels  them  from  the  church  door  and  proclaims 
the  interdict ;  and  then  follow  some  splendid  lyr 
ical  passages,  in  which  the  Pope  commands  the 
pictures  and  images  to  be  veiled  and  the  relics 
to  be  concealed,  and  curses  the  enemies  of  the 
Church.  I  shall  but  poorly  render  this  curse  by 
a  rhymeless  translation,  and  yet  I  am  tempted 
to  give  it: 

The  Pope.   To-day  let  the  perfidious 
Learn  at  thy  name  to  tremble, 
Nor  triumph  o'er  the  ruinous 
Place  of  thy  vanished  altars. 
Oh,  brief  be  their  days  and  uncertain; 
In  the  desert  their  wandering  footsteps, 
Every  tremulous  leaflet  affright  them! 

The  Cardinals.  Anathema,  anathema,  anathema! 

Pope.   May  their  widows  sit  down  'mid  the  ashes 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  227 

On  the  hearths  of  their  desolate  houses, 
With  their  little  ones  wailing  around  them. 

Cardinals.   Anathema,  anathema,  anathema! 

Pope.   May  he  who  was  born  to  the  fury 
Of  heaven,  afar  from  his  country 
Be  lost  in  his  ultimate  anguish. 

Cardinals.   Anathema,  anathema,  anathema! 

Pope.   May  he  fly  to  the  house  of  the  alien  oppres 
sor 

That  is  filled  with  the  spoil  of  his  brothers,  with  wo 
men 

Destroyed  by  the  pitiless  hands  that  defiled  them; 
There  in  accents  unknown  and  derided,  abase  him 
At  portals  ne'er  opened  in  mercy,  imploring 
A  morsel  of  bread. 

Cardinals.  Be  that  morsel  denied  him! 

Pope.   I  hear  the  wicked  cry:   I  from  the  Lord 
Will  fly  away  with  swift  and  tireless  feet ; 
His  anger  follows  me  upon  the  sea; 
I'll  seek  the  desert;   who  will  give  me  wings'? 
In  cloudy  horror,  who  shall  lead  my  steps'? 
The  eye  of  God  maketh  the  night  as  day. 
0  brothers,  fulfill  then 
The  terrible  duty; 
Throw  down  from  the  altars 
The  dim-burning  tapers; 
And  be  all  joy,  and  be  the  love  of  God 
In  thankless  hearts  that  know  not  Peter,  quenched, 
As  is  the  little  flame  that  falls  and  dies, 
Here  in  these  tapers  trampled  under  foot. 

In  the  first  scene  of  the  third  act,  which  is  a  des 
olate  place  in  the  Campagna,  near  the  sea,  Arnaldo 
appears.  He  has  been  expelled  from  Rome  by  the 
people,  eager  for  the  opening  of  their  churches,  and 


228  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

he  soliloquizes  upon  his  fate  in  language  that  subtly 
Hints  all  his  passing  moods,  and  paints  the  struggle 
of  his  soul.  It  appears  to  me  that  it  is  a  wise  thing 
to  make  him  almost  regret  the  cloister  in  the  midst 
of  his  hatred  of  it,  and  then  shrink  from  that  regret 
with  horror  ;  and  there  is  also  a  fine  sense  of  night 
and  loneliness  in  the  scene : 

Like  this  sand 

Is  life  itself,  and  evermore  each  path 
Is  traced  in  suffering,  and  one  footprint  still 
Obliterates  another  5   and  we  are  all 
Vain  shadows  here  that  seem  a  little  while, 
And  suffer,  and  pass.     Let  me  not  fight  in  vain, 

0  Son  of  God,  with  thine  immortal  word, 
Yon  tyrant  of  eternity  and  time, 

Who  doth  usurp  thy  place  on  earth,  whose  feet 
Are  in  the  depths,  whose  head  is  in  the  clouds, 
Who  thunders  all  abroad,  The  icorld  is  mine! 
Laws,  virtues,  liberty  I  have  attempted 
To  give  thee,  Rome.    Ah!   only  where  death  is 
Abides  thy  glory.     Here  the  laurel  only 
Flourishes  on  the  ruins  and  the  tombs. 

1  will  repose  upon  this  fallen  column 

My  weary  limbs.     Ah,  lower  than  this  ye  lie, 

You  Latin  souls,  and  to  your  ancient  height 

Who  shall  uplift  you?    I  am  all  weighed  down 

By  the  great  trouble  of  the  lofty  hopes 

Of  Italy  still  deluded,  and  I  find 

Within  my  soul  a  drearer  desert  far 

Than  this,  where  the  air  already  darkens  round, 

And  the  soft  notes  of  distant  convent  bells 

Announce  the  coming  night.  ...  I  cannot  hear  them 

Without  a  trembling  wish  that  in  my  heart 

Wakens  a  memory  that  becomes  remorse.   .   .   . 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  229 

All,  Reason,  soon  thou  languishest  in  us, 

Accustomed  to  such  outrage  all  our  lives. 

Thou  know'st  the  cloister ;   thou  a  youth  didst  enter 

That  sepulcher  of  the  living  where  is  war, — 

Remember  it  and  shudder!     The  damp  wind 

Stirs  this  gray  hair.     I  'm  near  the  sea.    0  night, 

Thy  silence  is  no  more;   sweet  on  the  ear 

Cometh  the  far-off  murmur  of  the  floods 

In  the  vast  desert;   now  no  more  the  darkness 

Imprisons  wholly;   now  less  gloomily 

Lowers  the  sky  that  lately  threatened  storm. 

Less  thick  the  air  is,  and  the  trembling  light 

0'  the  stars  among  the  breaking  clouds  appears. 

Praise  to  the  Lord!     The  eternal  harmony 

Of  all  his  work  I  feel.    Though  these  vague  beams 

Reveal  to  me  here  only  fens  and  tombs, 

My  soul  is  not  so  heavily  weighed  down 

By  burdens  that  oppressed  it.   ... 

I  rise  to  grander  purposes:  man's  tents 

Are  here  below,  his  city  is  in  heaven. 

I  doubt  no  more;   the  terror  of  the  cloister 

No  longer  assails  me. 

Presently  Giordano  comes  to  join  Arnaldo  in  this 
desolate  place,  and,  in  the  sad  colloquy  which  fol 
lows,  tells  him  of  the  events  of  Rome,  and  the  hope 
lessness  of  their  cause,  unless  they  have  the  aid  and 
countenance  of  the  Emperor.  He  implores  Arnaldo 
to  accompany  the  embassy  which  he  is  about  to  send 
to  Frederick  •  but  Arnaldo,  with  a  melancholy  dis 
dain,  refuses.  He  asks  where  are  the  Swiss  who 
accompanied  him  to  Rome,  and  he  is  answered  by 
one  of  the  Swiss  captains,  who  at  that  moment  ap 
pears.  The  Emperor  has  ordered  them  to  return 


230  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

home,  under  penalty  of  the  ban  of  the  empire.  He 
begs  Arnaldo  to  return  with  them,  but  Arnaldo 
will  not ;  and  Giordano  sends  him  under  a  strong 
escort  to  the  castle  of  Ostasio.  Arnaldo  departs 
with  much  misgiving,  for  the  wife  of  Ostasio  is 
Adelasia,  a  bigoted  papist,  who  has  hitherto  re 
sisted  the  teaching  to  which  her  husband  has  been 
converted. 

As  the  escort  departs,  the  returning  Swiss  are 
seen.  One  of  their  leaders  expresses  the  fear  that 
moves  them,  when  he  says  that  the  Germans  will 
desolate  their  homes  if  they  do  not  return  to  them. 
Moreover,  the  Italian  sun,  which  destroys  even  those 
born  under  it,  drains  their  life,  and  man  and  nature 
are  leagued  against  them  there.  "  What  have  you 
known  here ! »  he  asks,  and  his  soldiers  reply  in 
chorus : 

The  pride  of  old  names,  the  caprices  of  fate, 
In  vast  desert  spaces  the  silence  of  death, 
Or  in  mist-hidden  lowlands,  his  wandering  fires; 
No  sweet  song  of  birds,  no  heart- cheering  sound, 
But  eternal  memorials  of  ancient  despair, 
And  ruins  and  tombs  that  waken  dismay 
At  the  moan  of  the  pines  that  are  stirred  by  the  wind. 
Full  of  dark  and  mysterious  peril  the  woods; 
No  life-giving  fountains,  but  only  bare  sands, 
Or  some  deep-bedded  river  that  silently  moves, 
With  a  wave  that  is  livid  and  stagnant,  between 
Its  margins  ungladdened  by  grass  or  by  flowers, 
And  in  sterile  sands  vanishes  wholly  away. 
Out  of  huts  that  by  turns  have  been  shambles  and 

tombs, 
All  pallid  and  naked,  and  burned  by  their  fevers, 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  231 

The  peasant  folk  suddenly  stare  as  you  pass, 
With  visages  ghastly,  and  eyes  full  of  hate, 
Aroused  by  the  accent  that  's  strange  to  their  ears. 
Oh,  heavily  hang  the  clouds  here  on  the  head! 
Wan  and  sick  is  the  earth,  and  the  sun  is  a  tyrant. 

Then  one  of  the  Swiss  soldiers  speaks  alone : 

The  unconquerable  love  of  our  own  land 

Draws  us  away  till  we  behold  again 

The  eternal  walls  the  Almighty  builded  there. 

Upon  the  arid  ways  of  faithless  lands 

I  am  tormented  by  a  tender  dream 

Of  that  sweet  rill  which  runs  before  my  cot. 

Oh,  let  me  rest  beside  the  smiling  lake, 

And  hear  the  music  of  familiar  words, 

And  on  its  lonely  margin,  wild  and  fair, 

Lie  down  and  think  of  my  beloved  ones. 

There  is  no  page  of  this  tragedy  which  does  not 
present  some  terrible  or  touching  picture,  which  is 
not  full  of  brave  and  robust  thought,  which  lias 
not  also  great  dramatic  power.  But  I  am  obliged 
to  curtail  the  proof  of  this,  and  I  feel  that,  after 
all,  I  shall  not  give  a  complete  idea  of  the  trag 
edy's  grandeur,  its  subtlety,  its  vast  scope  and 
meaning. 

There  is  a  striking  dialogue  between  a  Roman 
partisan  of  Arnaldo,  who,  with  Ms  fancy  oppressed 
by  the  heresy  of  his  cause,  is  wavering  in  his  alle 
giance,  and  a  Brescian,  whom  the  outrages  of  the 
priests  have  forever  emancipated  from  faith  in 
their  power  to  bless  or  ban  in  the  world  to  come. 
Then  ensues  a  vivid  scene,  in  which  a  fanatical 


232  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

and  insolent  monk  of  Arnaldo's  order,  leading  a 
number  of  soldiers,  arrests  him  by  command  of 
Adrian.  Ostasio's  soldiers  approaching  to  rescue 
him,  the  monk  orders  him  to  be  slain,  but  he  is 
saved,  and  the  act  closes  with  the  triumphal  chorus 
of  his  friends.  Here  is  fine  occasion  for  the  play 
of  different  passions,  and  the  occasion  is  not  lost. 
With  the  fourth  act  is  introduced  the  new  inter 
est  of  the  "German  oppression  ;  and  as  we  have  had 
hitherto  almost  wholly  a  study  of  the  effect  of  the 
papal  tyranny  upon  Italy,  we  are  now  confronted 
with  the  shame  and  woe  which  the  empire  has 
wrought  her.  Exiles  from  the  different  Lombard 
cities  destroyed  by  Barbarossa  meet  on  their  way 
to  seek  redress  from  the  Pope,  and  they  pour  out 
their  sorrows  in  pathetic  and  passionate  lyrics. 
To  read  these  passages  gives  one  a  favorable 
notion  of  the  liberality  or  the  stupidity  of  the  gov 
ernment  which  permitted  the  publication  of  the 
tragedy.  The  events  alluded  to  were  many  cent 
uries  past,  the  empire  had  long  ceased  to  be ;  but 
the  Italian  hatred  of  the  Germans  was  one  and 
indivisible  for  every  moment  of  all  times,  and  we 
may  be  sure  that  to  each  of  Niccolini's  readers 
these  medieval  horrors  were  but  masks  for  cruel 
ties  exercised  by  the  Austrians  in  his  own  day,  and 
that  in  those  iynaaljbo^ 

was  full  utterance  for  his  smothered  sense  of  pres 
ent  wrong.  There  is  a  great  charm  in  these  stro 
phes;  they  add  unspeakable  pathos  to  a  drama 
which  is  so  largely  concerned  with  political  inter 
ests  ;  and  they  make  us  feel  that  it  is  a  beautiful 


GIAMBATTISTA   NICCOLINI.  233 

and  noble  work  of  art,  as  well  as  grand  appeal  to 
the  patriotism  of  the  Italians  and  the  justice  of 
mankind. 

When  we  are  brought  into  the  presence  of  Bar- 
barossa,  we  find  him  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Adrian, 
who  is  to  accompany  him  to  Rome  and  crown  him 
emperor,  in  return  for  the  aid  that  Barbarossa 
shall  give  in  reducing  the  rebellious  citizens  and 
delivering  Arnaldo  into  the  power  of  the  papacy. 
Heralds  come  to  announce  Adrian's  approach,  and 
riding  forth  a  little  way,  Frederick  dismounts  in 
order  to  go  forward  on  foot  and  meet  the  Pope, 
who  advances,  preceded  by  his  clergy,  and  attended 
by  a  multitude  of  his  partisans.  As  Frederick  per 
ceives  the  Pope  and  quits  his  horse,  he  muses : 

I  leave  thee, 

0  faithful  comrade  mine  in  many  perils, 
Thou  generous  steed !   and  now,  upon  the  ground 
That  should  have  thundered  under  thine  advance, 
With  humble  foot  I  silent  steps  must  trace. 
But  what  do  I  behold?     Toward  us  comes, 
With  tranquil  pride,  the  servant  of  the  lowly, 
Upon  a  white  horse  docile  to  the  rein 
As  he  would  kings  were;  all  about  the  path 
That  Adrian  moves  on,  warriors  and  people 
Of  either  sex,  all  ages,  in  blind  homage, 
Mingle,  press  near  and  fall  upon  the  ground, 
Or  one  upon  another;  and  man,  whom  God 
Made  to  look  up  to  heaven,  becomes  as  dust 
Under  the  feet  of  pride;  and  they  believe 
The  gates  of  Paradise  would  be  set  aside 
To  any  one  whom  his  steed  crushed  to  death. 
With  me  thou  never  hast  thine  empire  shared; 


234  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Thou  alone  hold'st  the  world!     He  will  not  turn 
On  me  in  sign  of  greeting  that  proud  head, 
Encircled  by  the  tiara;  and  he  sees, 
Like  God,  all  under  him  in  murmured  prayer 
Or  silence,  blesses  them,  and  passes  on. 
What  wonder  if  he  will  not  deign  to  touch 
The  earth  I  tread  on  with  his  haughty  foot! 
He  gives  it  to  be  kissed  of  kings;  I  too 
Must  stoop  to  the  vile  act. 

Since  the  time  of  Henry  II.  it  had  been  the  custom 
of  the  emperors  to  lead  the  Pope's  horse  by  the 
bridle,  and  to  hold  his  stirrup  while  he  descended. 
Adrian  waits  in  vain  for  this  homage  from  Fred 
erick,  and  then  alights  with  the  help  of  his  minis 
ters,  and  seats  himself  in  his  episcopal  chair,  while 
Frederick  draws  near,  saying  aside : 

I  read  there  in  his  face  his  insolent  pride 
Veiled  by  humility. 

He  bows  before  Adrian  and  kisses  his  foot,  and 
then  offers  him  the  kiss  of  peace,  which  Adrian 
refuses,  and  haughtily  reminds  him  of  the  fate 
of  Henry.  Frederick  answers  furiously  that  the 
thought  of  this  fate  has  always  filled  him  with 
hatred  of  the  papacy ;  and  Adrian,  perceiving  that 
he  has  pressed  too  far  in  this  direction,  turns  and 

soothes  the  Emperor : 

I  am  truth, 

And  thou  art  force,  and  if  thou  part'st  from  me, 
Blind  thou  becomest,  helpless  I  remain. 
We  are  but  one  at  last.  .  .  . 

Caesar  and  Peter, 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  235 

They  are  the  heights  of  God;  man  from  the  earth 
Contemplates  them  with  awe,  and  never  questions 
Which  thrusts  its  peak  the  higher  into  heaven. 
Therefore  be  wise,  and  learn  from  the  example 
Of  impious  Arnaldo.    He  's  the  foe 
Of  thrones  who  wars  upon  the  altar. 

But  he  strives  in  vain  to  persuade  Frederick  to 
the  despised  act  of  homage,  and  it  is  only  at  the 
intercession  of  the  Emperor's  kinsmen  and  the 
German  princes  that  he  consents  to  it.  When  it 
is  done  in  the  presence  of  all  the  army  and  the 
clerical  retinue,  Adrian  mounts,  and  says  to  Fred 
erick,  with  scarcely  hidden  irony : 

In  truth  thou  art 

An  apt  and  ready  squire,  and  thou  hast  held 
My  stirrup  firmly.     Take,  then,  .0  my  son, 
The  kiss  of  peace,  for  thou  hast  well  fulfilled 
AU  of  thy  duties. 

But  Frederick,  crying  aloud,  and  fixing  the  sense 
of  the  multitude  upon  him,  answers : 

Nay,  not  all,  0  Father!  — 

Princes  and  soldiers,  hear !    I  have  done  homage 
To  Peter,  not  to  him. 

The  Church  and  the  Empire  being  now  recon 
ciled,  Frederick  receives  the  ambassadors  of  the 
Roman  republic  with  scorn ;  he  outrages  all  their 
pretensions  to  restore  Rome  to  her  old  freedom 
and  renown;  insults  their  prayer  that  he  will 
make  her  his  capital,  and  heaps  contempt  upon 


236  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

the  weakness  and  vileness  of  the  people  they  rep 
resent.     Giordano  replies  for  them  : 

When  will  you  dream, 

You  Germans,  in  your  thousand  stolid  dreams, — 
The  fume  of  drunkenness, — a  future  greater 
Than  our  Rome's  memories'?   Never  be  her  banner 
Usurped  by  you !    In  prison  and  in  darkness 
Was  born  your  eagle,  that  did  but  descend 
Upon  the  helpless  prey  of  Roman  dead, 
But  never  dared  to  try  the  ways  of  heaven, 
With  its  weak  vision  wounded  by  the  sun. 
Ye  prate  of  Germany.     The  whole  world  conspired, 
And  even  more  in  vain,  to  work  us  harm. 
Before  that  day  when,  the  world  being  conquered, 
Rome  slew  herself. 

Of  man's  great  brotherhood 
Unworthy  still,  ye  change  not  with  the  skies. 
In  Italy  the  German's  fate  was  ever 
To  grow  luxurious  and  continue  cruel. 

The  soldiers  of  Barbarossa  press  upon  Giordano 
to  kill  him,  and  Frederick  saves  the  ambassadors 
jwith  difficulty,  and  hurries  them  away. 

In  the  first  part  of  the  fifth  act,  Niccolini  deals 
again  with  the  role_  which  _woman  has  played  in  the 
tragedy  of  Italian  history,  the  hopes  she  has  de 
feated,  and  the  plans  she  has  marred  through  those 
religious  instincts  which  should  have  blest  her  coun 
try,  but  which  through  their  perversion  by  priest 
craft  have  been  one  of  its  greatest  curses.  Adrian 
is  in  the  Vatican,  after  his  triumphant  return  to 
Rome,  when  Adelasia,  the  wife  of  that  Ostasio, 
Count  of  the  Campagna,  in  whose  castle  Arnaldo 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  237 

is  concealed,  and  who  shares  his  excommunication, 
is  ushered  into  the  Pope's  presence.  She  is  half 
mad  with  terror  at  the  penalties  under  which  her 
husband  has  fallen,  in  days  when  the  excommuni 
cated  were  shunned  like  lepers,  and  to  shelter  them, 
or  to  eat  and  drink  with  them,  even  to  salute  them, 
was  to  incur  privation  of  the  sacraments  5  when  a 
bier  was  placed  at  their  door,  and  their  houses 
were  stoned  5  when  King  Robert  of  France,  who 
fell  under  the  anathema,  was  abandoned  by  all  his 
courtiers  and  servants,  and  the  beggars  refused 
the  meat  that  was  left  from  his  table — and  she 
comes  into  Adrian's  presence  accusing  herself  as 
the  greatest  of  sinners.  The  Pope  asks : 

Hast  thou  betrayed 

Thy  husband,  or  from  some  yet  greater  crime 
Cometh  the  terror  that  oppresses  thee? 
Hast  slain  him'? 

Adelasia.  Haply  I  ought  to  slay  him. 

Adrian.  What  ? 

Adelasia.   I  fain  would  hate  him  and  I  cannot. 

Adrian.  What 

Hath  his  fault  been? 

Ad.  Oh,  the  most  horrible 

Of  all. 

Adr.  And  yet  is  he  dear  unto  thee  ? 

Ad.   I  love  him,  yes,  I  love  him,  though  he  's  changed 
From  that  he  was.     Some  gloomy  cloud  involves 
That  face  one  day  so  fair,  and  'neath  the  feet, 
Now  grown  deformed,  the  flowers  wither  away. 
I  know  not  if  I  sleep  or  if  I  wake, 
If  what  I  see  be  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
But  all  is  dreadful,  and  I  cannot  tell 


238  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  falsehood  from  the  truth  j   for  if  I  reason, 

I  fear  to  sin.     I  fly  the  happy  bed 

Where  I  became  a  mother,  but  return 

In  midnight's  horror,  where  my  husband  lies 

Wrapt  in  a  sleep  so  deep  it  frightens  me, 

And  question  with  my  trembling  hand  his  heart, 

The  fountain  of  his  life,  if  it  still  beat. 

Then  a  cold  kiss  I  give  him,  then  embrace  him 

With  shuddering  joy,  and  then  I  fly  again, — 

For  I  do  fear  his  love,  —  and  to  the  place 

Where  sleep  my  little  ones  I  hurl  myself, 

And  wake  them  with  my  moans,  and  drag  them  forth 

Before  an  old  miraculous  shrine  of  her, 

The  Queen  of  Heaven,  to  whom  I  Ve  consecrated, 

With  never-ceasing  vigils,  burning  lamps. 

There  naked,  stretched  upon  the  hard  earth,  weep 

My  pretty  babes,  and  each  of  them  repeats 

The  name  of  Mary  whom  I  call  upon; 

And  I  would  swear  that  she  looks  down  and  weeps. 

Then  I  cry  out,  u  Have  pity  on  my  children ! 

Thou  wast  a  mother,  and  the  good  obtain 

Forgiveness  for  the  guilty." 

Adrian  has  little  trouble  to  draw  from  the  dis 
tracted  woman  the  fact  that  her  husband  is  a  here 
tic — that  heretic,  indeed,  in  whose  castle  Arnaldo 
is  concealed.  On  his  promise  that  he  will  save  her 
husband,  she  tells  him  the  name  of  the  castle.  He 
summons  Frederick,  who  claims  Ostasio  as  his  vas 
sal,  and  declares  that  he  shall  die,  and  his  children 
shall  be  carried  to  Germany.  Adrian,  after  coldly 
asking  the  Emperor  to  spare  him,  feigns  himself 
helpless,  and  Adelasia  too  late  awakens  to  a  knowl 
edge  of . his  perfidy.  She  falls  at  his  feet : 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  239 

I  clasp  thy  knees  once  more,  and  I  do  hope 
Thou  hast  not  cheated  me!  ....  Ah,  now  I  see 
Thy  wicked  arts !    Because  thou  knewest  well 
My  husband  was  a  vassal  of  the  empire, 
That  pardon  which  it  was  not  thine  to  give 
Thou  didst  pretend  to  promise  me.     0  priest, 
Is  this  thy  pity  ?     Sorrow  gives  me  back 
My  wandering  reason,  and  I  waken  on 
The  brink  of  an  abyss;   and  from  this  wretch 
The  mask  that  did  so  hide  his  face  drops  down 
And  shows  it  in  its  naked  hideousness 
Unto  the  light  of  truth. 

Frederick  sends  his  soldiers  to  secure  Arnaldo, 
but  as  to  Ostasio  and  his  children  he  relents  some 
what,  being  touched  by  the  anguish  of  Adelasia. 
Adrian  rebukes  his  weakness,  saying  that  he  learned 
in  the  cloister  to  subdue  these  compassionate  im 
pulses.  In  the  next  scene,  which  is  on  the  Capi- 
toline  Hill,  the  Roman  Senate  resolves  to  defend 
the  city  against  the  Germans  to  the  last,  and  then 
we  have  Arnaldo  a  prisoner  in  a  cell  of  the  Castle 
of  St.  Angelo.  The  Prefect  of  Rome  vainly  en 
treats  him  to  recant  his  heresy,  and  then  leaves 
him  with  the  announcement  that  he  is  to  die  before 
the  following  day.  As  to  the  soliloquy  which  fol 
lows,  Niccolini  says  :  "  I  have  feigned  in  Arnaldo 
in  the  solemn  hour  of  death  these  doubts,  and  I 
believe  them  exceedingly  probable  in  a  disciple  of 
Abelard.  This  struggle  between  reason  and  faith 
is  found  more  or  less  in  the  intellect  of  every  one, 
and  constitutes  a  sublime  torment  in  the  life  of 
those  who,  like  the  Brescian  monk,  have  devoted 


240  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

themselves  from  an  early  age  to  the  study  of  phi 
losophy  and  religion.  None  of  the  ideas  which  I 
attribute  to  Arnaldo  were  unknown  to  him,  and, 
according  to  Miiller,  he  believed  that  God  was  all, 
and  that  the  whole  creation  was  but  one  of  his 
thoughts.  His  other  conceptions  in  regard  to 
divinity  are  found  in  one  of  his  contemporaries." 
The  soliloquy  is  as  follows: 

Aforetime  thou  hast  said,  0  King  of  heaven, 

That  in  the  world  thou  wilt  not  power  or  riches. 

And  can  he  be  divided  from  the  Church 

Who  keeps  his  faith  in  thine  immortal  word, 

The  light  of  souls?     To  remain  in  the  truth 

It  only  needs  that  I  confess  to  thee 

All  sins  of  mine.     0  thou  eternal  priest, 

Thou  read'st  my  heart,  and  that  which  I  can  scarce 

Express  thou  seest.     A  great  mystery 

Is  man  unto  himself,  conscience  a  deep 

Which  only  thou  canst  sound.     What  storm  is  there 

Of  guilty  thoughts!     Oh,  pardon  my  rebellion! 

Evil  springs  up  within  the  mind  of  man, 

As  in  its  native  soil,  since  that  day  Adam 

Abused  thy  great  gift,  and  created  guilt. 

And  if  each  thought  of  ours  became  a  deed, 

Who  would  be  innocent  ?     I  did  once  defend 

The  cause  of  Abelard,  and  at  the  decree 

Imposing  silence  on  him  I,  too,  ceased. 

What  fault  in  me  ?     Bernard  in  vain  inspired 

The  potentates  of  Europe  to  defend 

The  sepulcher  of  God.     Mankind,  his  temple, 

I  sought  to  liberate,  and  upon  the  earth 

Desired  the  triumph  of  the  love  divine, 

And  life,  and  liberty,  and  progress.     This, 

This  was  my  doctrine,  and  God  only  knows 

How  reason  struggles  with  the  faith  in  me 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  241 

For  the  supremacy  of  my  spirit.     Oh, 

Forgive  me,  Lord.     These  in  their  war  are  like 

The  rivers  twain  of  heaven,  till  they  return 

To  their  eternal  origin,  and  the  truth 

Is  seen  in  thee,  and  God  denies  not  God. 

I  ought  to  pray.     Thinking  on  thee,  I  pray. 

Yet  how  thy  substance  by  three  persons  shared, 

Each  equal  with  the  other,  one  remains, 

I  cannot  comprehend,  nor  give  in  thee 

Bounds  to  the  infinite  and  human  names. 

Father  of  the  world,  that  which  thou  here  revealest 

Perchance  is  but  a  thought  of  thine  j  or  this 

Movable  veil  that  covers  here  below 

All  thy  creation  is  eternal  illusion 

That  hides  God  from  us.     Where  to  rest  itself 

The  mind  hath  not.     It  palpitates  uncertain 

In  infinite  darkness,  and  denies  more  wisely 

Than  it  affirms.     0  God  omnipotent! 

I  know  not  what  thou  art,  or,  if  I  know, 

How  can  I  utter  thee?    The  tongue  has  not 

Words  for  thee,  and  it  falters  with  my  thought 

That  wrongs  thee  by  its  effort.     Soon  I  go 

Out  of  the  last  doubt  unto  the  first  truth. 

What  did  I  say?    The  intellect  is  soothed 

To  faith  in  Christ,  and  therein  it  reposes 

As  in  the  bosom  of  a  tender  mother 

Her  son.     Arnaldo,  that  which  thou  art  seeking 

With  sterile  torment,  thy  great  teacher  sought 

Long  time  in  vain,  and  at  the  cross's  foot 

His  weary  reason  cast  itself  at  last. 

Follow  his  great  example,  and  with  tears 

Wash  out  thy  sins. 

We  leave  Arnaldo  in  his  prison,  and  it  is  sup 
posed  that  he  is  put  to  death  during  the  combat 

that  follows  between  the  Germans  and  Romans 
11 


242  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

immediately  after  the  coronation  of  Frederick.  As 
the  forces  stand  opposed  to  each  other,  two  beau 
tiful  choruses  are  introduced — one  of  Romans  and 
one  of  Germans.  And,  just  before  the  onset,  Ade- 
lasia  appears  and  confesses  that  she  has  betrayed 
Arnaldo,  and  that  he  is  now  in  the  power  of  the 
papacy.  At  the  same  time  the  clergy  are  heard 
chanting  Frederick's  coronation  hymn,  and  then 
the  battle  begins.  The  Romans  are  beaten  by  the 
number  and  discipline  of  their  enemies,  and  their 
leaders  are  driven  out.  The  Germans  appear 
before  Frederic  and  Adrian  with  two  hundred 
prisoners,  and  ask  mercy  for  them.  Adrian  de 
livers  them  to  his  prefect,  and  it  is  implied  that 
they  are  put  to  death.  Then  turning  to  Frederick, 
Adrian  says: 

Art  thou  content?  for  I  have  given  to  thee 

More  than  the  crown.     My  words  have  consecrated 

Thy  power.     So  let  the  Church  and  Empire  be 

Now  at  last  reconciled.     The  mystery 

That  holds  three  persons  in  one  substance,    nor 

Confounds  them,  may  it  make  us  here  on  earth 

To  reign  forever,  image  of  itself, 

In  unity  which  is  like  to  that  of  God. 


So  ENDS  the  tragedy,  and  so  was  accomplished 
the  union  which  rested  so  heavily  ever  after  upon 
the  hearts  and  hopes,  not  only  of  Italians,  but  of 
all  Christian  men.  So  was  confirmed  that  tempo- 


GIAMBATTISTA    NICCOLINI.  243 

ral  power  of  the  popes,  whose  destruction  will  be 
known  in  history  as  infinitely  the  greatest  event 
of  our  greatly  eventful  time,  and  will  free  from 
the  doubt  and  dread  of  many  one  of  the  most  pow 
erful  agencies  for  good  in  the  world;  namely,  the 
Catholic  Church. 

I  have  tried  to  give  an  idea  of  the  magnificence 
and  scope  of  this  mighty  tragedy  of  Niccolini's, 
and  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  now  add  anything 
which  will  make  this  clearer.  If  we  think  of  the 
grandeur  of  its  plan,  and  how  it  employs  for  its 
effect  the  evil  and  the  perverted  good  of  the  time 
in  which  the  scene  was  laid,  how  it  accords  per 
fect  sincerity  to  all  the  great  actors, —  to  the  Pope 
as  well  as  to  Arnaldo,  to  the  Emperor  as  well 
as  to  the  leaders  of  the  people, —  we  must  per 
ceive  that  its  conception  is  that  of  a  very  great 
artist.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  execution  is  no  less 
admirable.  We  cannot  judge  it  by  the  narrow  rule 
which  the  tragedies  of  the  stage  must  obey;  we 
must  look  at  it  with  the  generosity  and  the  lib 
eral  imagination  with  which  we  can  alone  enjoy  a 
great  fiction.  Then  the  patience,  the  subtlety,  the 
strength,  with  which  each  character,  individual 
and  typical,  is  evolved;  the  picturesqueness  with 
which  every  event  is  presented ;  the  lyrical  sweet 
ness  and  beauty  with  which  so  many  passages  are 
enriched,  will  all  be  apparent  to  us,  and  we  shall 
feel  the  aesthetic  sublimity  of  the  work  as  well  as 
its  moral  force  and  its  political  significance. 


GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 


IN  the  year  1798,  at  Recanati,  a  little  mountain 
town  of  Tuscany,  was  born,  noble  and  miserable, 
the  poet  Giacomo  Leopardi,  who  began  even  in 
childhood  to  suffer  the  malice  of  that  strange  con 
spiracy  of  ills  which  consumed  him.  His  consti 
tution  was  very  fragile,  and  it  early  felt  the  effect 
of  the  passionate  ardor  with  which  the  sickly  boy 
dedicated  his  life  to  literature.  From  the  first  he 
seems  to  have  had  little  or  no  direction  in  his  own 
studies,  and  hardly  any  instruction.  He  liter 
ally  lived  among  his  books,  rarely  leaving  his  own 
room  except  to  pass  into  his  father's  library ;  his 
research  and  erudition  were  marvelous,  and  at  the 
age  of  sixteen  he  presented  his  father  a  Latin 
translation  and  comment  on  Plotinus,  of  which 
Sainte-Beuve  said  that  "  one  who  had  studied  Plo 
tinus  his  whole  life  could  find  something  useful  in 
this  work  of  a  boy."  At  that  age  Leopardi  already 
knew  all  Greek  and  Latin  literature;  he  knew 
French,  Spanish,  and  English ;  he  knew  Hebrew, 
and  disputed  in  that  tongue  with  the  rabbis  of 
Ancona. 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  245 

The  poet's  father  was  Count  Monaldo  Leopardi, 
who  had  written  little  books  of  a  religious  and 
political  character ;  the  religion  very  bigoted,  the 
politics  very  reactionary.  His  library  was  the 
largest  anywhere  in  that  region,  but  he  seems  not 
to  have  learned  wisdom  in  it ;  and,  though  other 
wise  a  blameless  man,  he  used  his  son,  who  grew 
to  manhood  differing  from  him  in  all  his  opinions, 
with  a  rigor  that  was  scarcely  less  than  cruel.  He 
was  bitterly  opposed  to  what  was  called  progress, 
to  religious  and  civil  liberty;  he  was  devoted  to 
what  was  called  order,  which  meant  merely  the 
existing  order  of  things,  the  divinely  appointed 
prince,  the  infallible  priest.  He  had  a  mediaeval 
taste,  and  he  made  his  palace  at  Recanati  as  much 
like  a  feudal  castle  as  he  could,  with  all  sorts  of 
baronial  bric-a-brac.  An  armed  vassal  at  his  gate 
was  out  of  the  question,  but  at  the  door  of  his  own 
chamber  stood  an  effigy  in  rusty  armor,  bearing  a 
tarnished  halberd.  He  abhorred  the  fashions  of 
our  century,  and  wore  those  of  an  earlier  epoch ; 
his  wife,  who  shared  his  prejudices  and  opinions, 
fantastically  appareled  herself  to  look  like  the  por 
trait  of  some  gentlewoman  of  as  remote  a  date. 
Halls  hung  in  damask,  vast  mirrors  in  carven 
frames,  and  stately  furniture  of  antique  form  at 
tested  throughout  the  palace  "  the  splendor  of  a 
race  which,  if  its  fortunes  had  somewhat  declined, 
still  knew  how  to  maintain  its  ancient  state." 

In  this  home  passed  the  youth  and  early  man 
hood  of  a  poet  who  no  sooner  began  to  think  for 
himself  than  he  began  to  think  things  most  dis- 


246  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

cordant  with  his  father's  principles  and  ideas.  He 
believed  in  neither  the  religion  nor  the  politics  of 
his  race ;  he  cherished  with  the  desire  of  literary 
achievement  that  vague  faith  in  humanity,  in  free 
dom,  in  the  future,  against  which  the  Count  Mo- 
naldo  had  so  sternly  set  his  face ;  he  chafed  under 
the  restraints  of  his  father's  authority,  and  longed 
for  some  escape  into  the  world.  The  Italians  some 
times  write  of  Leopardi's  unhappiness  with  pas 
sionate  condemnation  of  his  father;  but  neither 
was  Count  Monaldo's  part  an  enviable  one,  and  it 
was  certainly  not  at  this  period  that  he  had  all  the 
wrong  in  his  differences  with  his  son.  Neverthe 
less,  it  is  pathetic  to  read  how  the  heartsick,  frail, 
ambitious  boy,  when  he  found  some  article  in  a 
newspaper  that  greatly  pleased  him,  would  write 
to  the  author  and  ask  his  friendship.  When  these 
journalists,  who  were  possibly  not  always  the 
wisest  publicists  of  their  time,  so  far  responded 
to  the  young  scholar's  advances  as  to  give  him 
their  personal  acquaintance  as  well  as  their  friend 
ship,  the  old  count  received  them  with  a  courte 
ous  tolerance,  which  had  no  kindness  in  it  for 
their  progressive  ideas.  He  lived  in  dread  of  his 
son's  becoming  involved  in  some  of  the  many  plots 
then  hatching  against  order  and  religion,  and  he 
repressed  with  all  his  strength  Leopardi's  revolu 
tionary  tendencies,  which  must  always  have  been 
mere  matters  of  sentiment,  and  not  deserving  of 
great  rigor. 

He  seems  not  so  much  to  have  loved  Italy  as  to 
have  hated  Eecanati.     It  is  a  small  village  high  up 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  247 

in  the  Apennines,  between  Loreto  and  Macerata, 
and  is  chiefly  accessible  in  ox-carts.  Small  towns 
everywhere  are  dull,  and  perhaps  are  not  more 
deadly  so  in  Italy  than  they  are  elsewhere,  but 
there  they  have  a  peculiarly  obscure,  narrow  life 
indoors.  Outdoors  there  is  a  little  lounging  about 
the  caffe,  a  little  stir  on  holidays  among  the  lower 
classes  and  the  neighboring  peasants,  a  great  deal 
of  gossip  at  all  times,  and  hardly  anything  more. 
The  local  nobleman,  perhaps,  cultivates  literature 
as  Leopardi's  father  did;  there  is  always  some 
abbate  mousing  about  in  the  local  archives  and 
writing  pamphlets  on . disputed  points  of  the  local 
history;  and  there  is  the  parish  priest,  to  help 
form  the  polite  society  of  the  place.  As  if  this 
social  barrenness  were  not  enough,  Eecanati  was 
physically  hurtful  to  Leopardi:  the  climate  was 
very  fickle ;  the  harsh,  damp  air  was  cruel  to  his 
nerves.  He  says  it  seems  to  him  a  den  where  no 
good  or  beautiful  thing  ever  comes ;  he  bewails 
the  common  ignorance;  in  Recanati  there  is  no 
love  for  letters,  for  the  humanizing  arts ;  nobody 
frequents  his  father's  great  library,  nobody  buys 
books,  nobody  reads  the  newspapers.  Yet  this 
forlorn  and  detestable  little  town  has  one  good 
thing.  It  has  a  preeminently  good  Italian  accent, 
better  even,  he  thinks,  than  the  Koman, —  which 
would  be  a  greater  consolation  to  an  Italian  than 
we  can  well  understand.  Nevertheless  it  was  not 
society,  and  it  did  not  make  his  fellow-townsmen 
endurable  to  him.  He  recoiled  from  them  more  and 
more,  and  the  solitude  in  which  he  lived  among 


248  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

his  books  filled  him  with  a  black  melancholy,  which 
he  describes  as  a  poison,  corroding  the  life  of  body 
and  soul  alike.  To  a  friend  who  tries  to  reconcile 
him  to  Recanati,  he  writes  :  "  It  is  very  well  to  tell 
me  that  Plutarch  and  Alfieri  loved  Chaeronea  and 
Asti  j  they  loved  them,  but  they  left  them  ;  and  so 
shall  I  love  my  native  place  when  I  am  away  from 
it.  Now  I  say  I  hate  it  because  I  am  in  it.  To 
recall  the  spot  where  one's  childhood  days  were 
passed  is  dear  and  sweet  j  it  is  a  fine  saying,  l  Here 
you  were  born,  and  here  Providence  wills  you  to 
stay.7  All  very  fine !  Say  to  the  sick  man  striv 
ing  to  be  well  that  he  is  flying  in  the  face  of  Provi 
dence;  tell  the  poor  man  struggling  to  advance 
himself  that  he  is  defying  heaven ;  bid  the  Turk 
beware  of  baptism,  for  Grod  has  made  him  a 
Turk  ! "  So  Leopardi  wrote  when  he  was  in  com 
parative  health  and  able  to  continue  his  studies. 
But  there  were  long  periods  when  his  ailments 
denied  him  his  sole  consolation  of  work.  Then  he 
rose  late,  and  walked  listlessly  about  without  open 
ing  his  lips  or  looking  at  a  book  the  whole  day.  As 
soon  as  he  might,  he  returned  to  his  studies ;  when 
he  must,  he  abandoned  them  again.  At  such  a 
time  he  once^wrote  to  a  friend  who  understood 
and  loved  him  \  u  I  have  not  energy  enough  to 
conceive  a  srrTgle  desire,  not  even  for  death;  not 
beca-use  I  fear  death,  but  because  I  cannot  see  any 
difference  between  that  and  my  present  life.  For 
the  first  time  ennui  not  merely  oppresses  and 
wearies  me,  but  it  also  agonizes  and  lacerates  me, 
like  a  cruel  pain.  I  am  overwhelmed  with  a  sense 


GIACOMO  LEOPARDI. 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  249 

of  the  vanity  of  all  things  and  the  condition  of 
men.  My  passions  are  dead,  my  very  despair  seems 
nonentity.  As  to  my  studies,  which  you  urge  me 
to  continue,  for  the  last  eight  months  I  have  not 
known  what  study  means ;  the  nerves  of  my  eyes 
and  of  my  whole  head  are  so  weakened  and  dis 
ordered  that  I  cannot  read  or  listen  to,  reading, 
nor  can  I  fix  my  mind  upon  any  subject."! 

At  Recanati  Leopardi  suffered  not  merely  soli 
tude,  but  the  contact  of  people  whom  he  despised, 
and  whose  vulgarity  was  all  the  greater  oppression 
when  it  showed  itself  in  a  sort  of  stupid  com 
passionate  tenderness  for  him.  He  had  already 
suffered  one  of  those  disappointments  which  are 
the  rule  rather  than  the  exception,  and  his  first 
love  had  ended  as  first  love  always  does  when  it 
ends  fortunately  —  in  disappointment.  He  scarcely 
knew  the  object  of  his  passion,  a  young  girl  of  hum 
ble  lot,  whom  he  used  to  hear  singing  at  her  loom 
in  the  house  opposite  his  father's  palace.  Count 
Monaldo  promptly  interfered,  and  not  long  after 
ward  the  young  girl  died.  But  the  sensitive  boy, 
and  his  biographers  after  him,  made  the  most  of 
this  sorrow  ;  and  doubtless  it  helped  to  render  life 
under  his  father's  roof  yet  heavier  and  harder  to 
bear.  Such  as  it  was,  it  seems  to  have  been  the 
only  love  that  Leopardi  ever  really  felt,  and  the 
young  girl's  memory  passed  into  the  melancholy 
of  his  life  and  poetry. 

But  he  did  not  summon  courage  to  abandon 
Recanati  before  his  twenty -fourth  year,  and  then 

he  did  not  go  with  his  father's  entire  good-will. 
11* 


250  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  count  wished  him  to  become  a  priest,  but 
Leopardi  shrank  from  the  idea  with  horror,  and 
there  remained  between  him  and  his  father  not 
only  the  difference  of  their  religious  and  political 
opinions,  but  an  unkindness  which  must  be  remem 
bered  against  the  judgment,  if  not  the  heart,  of 
the  latter.  He  gave  his  son  so  meager  an  allow 
ance  that  it  scarcely  kept  him  above  want,  and 
obliged  him  to  labors  and  subjected  him  to  cares 
which  his  frail  health  was  not  able  bear. 

From  Reeanati  Leopardi  first  went  to  Rome; 
but  he  carried  Recanati  everywhere  with  him,  and 
he  was  as  solitary  and  as  wretched  in  the  capital 
of  the  world  as  in  the  little  village  of  the  Apen 
nines.  He  despised  the  Romans,  as  they  deserved, 
upon  very  short  acquaintance,  and  he  declared  that 
his  dullest  fellow-villager  had  a  greater  share  of 
good  sense  than  the  best  of  them.  Their  frivolity 
was  incredible;  the  men  moved  him  to  rage  and 
pity;  the  women,  high  and  low,  to  loathing.  In 
one  of  his  letters  to  his  brother  Carlo,  he  says  of 
Rome,  as  he  found  it :  "I  have  spoken  to  you  only 
about  the  women,  because  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to 
say  to  you  about  literature.  Horrors  upon  horrors ! 
The  most  sacred  names  profaned,  the  most  absurd 
follies  praised  to  the  skies,  the  greatest  spirits  of 
the  century  trampled  under  foot  as  inferior  to 
the  smallest  literary  man  in  Rome.  Philosophy 
despised;  genius,  imagination,  feeling,  names  —  I 
do  not  say  things,  but  even  names  —  unknown  and 
alien  to  these  professional  poets  and  poetesses! 
Antiquarianism  placed  at  the  summit  of  human 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  251 

learning,  and  considered  invariably  and  universally 
as  the  only  true  study  of  man  ! n  This  was  Rome 
in  1822.  "  I  do  not  exaggerate/'  he  writes,  "  because 
it  is  impossible,  and  I  do  not  even  say  enough." 
One  of  the  things  that  moved  him  to  the  greatest 
disgust  in  the  childish  and  insipid  society  of  a  city 
where  he  had  fondly  hoped  to  find  a  response  to  his 
high  thoughts  was  the  sensation  caused  through 
out  Rome  by  the  dress  and  theatrical  effectiveness 
with  which  a  certain  prelate  said  mass.  All  Rome 
talked  of  it,  cardinals  and  noble  ladies  compli 
mented  the  performer  as  if  he  were  a  ballet-dancer, 
and  the  flattered  prelate  used  to  rehearse  his  part, 
and  expatiate  upon  his  methods  of  study  for  it,  to 
private  audiences  of  admirers.  In  fact,  society 
had  then  touched  almost  the  lowest  depth  of  deg 
radation  where  society  had  always  been  corrupt 
and  dissolute,  and  the  reader  of  Massimo  d'Aze- 
glio's  memoirs  may  learn  particulars  (given  with 
shame  and  regret,  indeed,  and  yet  with  perfect 
Italian  frankness)  which  it  is  not  necessary  to 
repeat  here. 

There  were,  however,  many  foreigners  living  at 
Rome  in  whose  company  Leopardi  took  great 
pleasure.  They  were  chiefly  Germans,  and  first 
among  them  was  Niebuhr,  who  says  of  his  first 
meeting  with  the  poet :  "  Conceive  of  my  astonish 
ment  when  I  saw  standing  before  me  in  the  poor 
little  chamber  a  mere  youth,  pale  and  shy,  frail  in 
person,  and  obviously  in  ill  health,  who  was  by  far 
the  first,  in  fact  the  only,  Greek  philologist  in  Italy, 
the  author  of  critical  comments  and  observations 


MIA. 


252  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

which  would  have  won  honor  for  the  first  philolo 
gist  in  Germany,  and  yet  only  twenty-two  years 
old !  He  had  become  thus  profoundly  learned 
without  school,  without  instructor,  without  help, 
without  encouragement,  in  his  father's  house.  I 
understand,  too,  that  he  is  one  of  the  first  of 
the  rising  poets  of  Italy.  What  a  nobly  gifted 
people ! " 

Niebuhr  offered  to  procure  him  a  professorship 
of  Greek  philosophy  in  Berlin,  but  Leopardi  would 
not  consent  to  leave  his  own  country;  and  then 
Niebuhr  unsuccessfully  used  his  influence  to  get 
him  some  employment  from  the  papal  govern 
ment, —  compliments  and  good  wishes  it  gave  him, 
but  no  employment  and  no  pay. 

From  Rome  Leopardi  went  to  Milan,  where  he 
earned  something  —  very  little — as  editor  of  a 
comment  upon  Petrarch.  A  little  later  he  went  to 
Bologna,  where  a  generous  and  sympathetic  noble 
man  made  him  tutor  in  his  family ;  but  Leopardi 
returned  not  long  after  to  Recanati,  where  he  prob 
ably  found  no  greater  content  than  he  left  there. 
Presently  we  find  him  at  Pisa,  and  then  at  Flor 
ence,  eking  out  the  allowance  from  his  father  by 
such  literary  work  as  he  could  find  to  do.  In  the 
latter  place  ifc  is  somewhat  dimly  established  that 
he  again  fell  in  love,  though  he  despised  the  Flor 
entine  women  almost  as  much  as  the  Romans,  for 
their  extreme  ignorance,  folly,  and  pride.  This 
love  also  was  unhappy.  There  is  no  reason  to 
believe  that  Leopardi,  who  inspired  tender  and  ar 
dent  friendships  in  men,  ever  moved  any  woman 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  253 

to  love.  The  Florentine  ladies  are  darkly  accused 
by  one  of  his  biographers  of  having  laughed  at 
the  poor  young  pessimist,  and  it  is  very  possible ; 
but  that  need  not  make  us  think  the  worse  of  him, 
or  of  them  either,  for  that  matter.  He  is  supposed 
to  have  figured  the  lady  of  his  latest  love  under 
the  name  of  Aspasia,  in  one  of  his  poems,  as  he 
did  his  first  love  under  that  of  Sylvia,  in  the  poem 
so  called.  Doubtless  the  experience  further  embit 
tered  a  life  already  sufficiently  miserable.  He  left 
Florence,  but  after  a  brief  sojourn  at  Rome  he 
returned  thither,  where  his  friend  Antonio  Ranieri 
watched  with  a  heavy  heart  the  gradual  decay  of 
his  forces,  and  persuaded  him  finally  to  seek  the 
milder  air  of  Naples.  Ranieri's  father  was,  like 
Leopardi's,  of  reactionary  opinions,  and  the  Nea 
politan,  dreading  the  effect  of  their  discord,  did 
not  take  his  friend  to  his  own  house,  but  hired  a 
villa  at  Capodimonte,  where  he  lived  four  years 
in  fraternal  intimacy  with  Leopardi,  and  where 
the  poet  died  in  1837. 

Ranieri  has  in  some  sort  made  himself  the  cham 
pion  of  Leopardi's  fame.  He  has  edited  his  poems, 
and  has  written  a  touching  and  beautiful  sketch 
of  his  life.  Their  friendship,  which  was  of  the 
greatest  tenderness,  began  when  Leopardi  sorely 
needed  it  5  and  Ranieri  devoted  himself  to  the 
hapless  poet  like  a  lover,  as  if  to  console  him  for 
the  many  years  in  which  he  had  known  neither 
reverence  nor  love.  He  indulged  all  the  eccen 
tricities  of  his  guest,  who  for  a  sick  man  had 
certain  strange  habits,  often  not  rising  till  evening, 


254  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

dining  at  midnight,  and  going  to  bed  at  dawn. 
Banieri's  sister  Paolina  kept  house  for  the  friends, 
and  shared  all  her  brother's  compassion  for  Leo- 
par  di,  whose  family  appears  to  have  willingly  left 
him  to  the  care  of  these  friends.  How  far  the 
old  unkindness  between  him  and  hie  father  con 
tinued,  it  is  hard  to  say.  His  last  letter  was 
written  to  his  mother  in  May,  1837,  some  two 
weeks^bef ore  his  death ;  he  thanks  her  for  a  present 
of  ten  dollars, —  one  may  imagine  from  the  gift 
and  the  gratitude  that  he  was  still  held  in  a  strict 
and  parsimonious  tutelage, —  and  begs  her  prayers 
and  his  father's,  for  after  he  has  seen  them  again, 
he  shall  not  have  long  to  live. 

He  did  not  see  them  again,  but  he  continued  to 
smile  at  the  anxieties  of  his  friends,  who  had  too 
great  reason  to  think  that  the  end  was  much  nearer 
than  Leopardi  himself  supposed.  On  the  night  of 
the  14th  of  June,  while  they  were  waiting  for  the 
carriage  which  was  to  take  them  into  the  country, 
where  they  intended  to  pass  the  time  together  and 
sup  at  daybreak,  Leopardi  felt  so  great  a  difficulty 
of  breathing  —  he  called  it  asthma,  but  it  was 
dropsy  of  the  heart  —  that  he  begged  them  to  send 
for  a  doctor.  The  doctor  on  seeing  the  sick  man 
took  Eanieri  apart,  and  bade  him  fetch  a  priest 
without  delay,  and  while  they  waited  the  coming 
of  the  friar,  Leopardi  spoke  now  and  then  with 
them,  but  sank  rapidly.  Finally,  says  Ranieri, 
"  Leopardi  opened  his  eyes,  now  larger  even  than 
their  wont,  and  looked  at  me  more  fixedly  than 
before.  '  I  can't  see  you/  he  said,  with  a  kind  of 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  255 

sigh.  And  he  ceased  to  breathe,  and  his  pulse  and 
heart  beat  no  more ;  and  at  the  same  moment  the 
Friar  Felice  of  the  barefoot  order  of  St.  Augustine 
entered  the  chamber,  while  I,  quite  beside  myself, 
called  with  a  loud  voice  on  him  who  had  been  my 
friend,  my  brother,  my  father,  and  who  answered 
me  nothing,  and  yet  seemed  to  gaze  upon  me.  ... 
His  death  was  inconceivable  to  me ;  the  others  were 
dismayed  and  mute;  there  arose  between  the 
good  friar  and  myself  the  most  cruel  and  painful 
dispute,  ...  I  madly  contending  that  my  friend 
was  still  alive,  and  beseeching  him  with  tears  to 
accompany  with  the  offices  of  religion  the  passing 
of  that  great  soul.  But  he,  touching  again  and 
again  the  pulse  and  the  heart,  continually  answered 
that  the  spirit  had  taken  flight.  At  last,  a  spon 
taneous  and  solemn  silence  fell  upon  all  in  the 
room ;  the  friar  knelt  beside  the  dead,  and  we  all 
followed  his  example.  Then  after  long  and  pro 
found  meditation  he  prayed,  and  we  prayed  with 
him."' 

In  another  place  Ranieri  says :  "  The  malady  of 
Leopardi  was  indefinable,  for  having  its  spring  in 
the  most  secret  sources  of  life,  it  was  like  life  itself, 
inexplicable.  The  bones  softened  and  dissolved 
away,  refusing  their  frail  support  to  the  flesh  that 
covered  them.  The  flesh  itself  grew  thinner  and 
more  lifeless  every  day,  for  the  organs  of  nutrition 
denied  their  office  of  assimilation.  The  lungs, 
cramped  into  a  space  too  narrow,  and  not  sound 
themselves,  expanded  with  difficulty.  With  diffi 
culty  the  heart  freed  itself  from  the  lymph  with 


256  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

which  a  slow  absorption  burdened  it.     The  blood, 
which  ill  renewed  itself  in  the  hard  and  painful 
respiration,  returned  cold,  pale,  and  sluggish  to  the 
enfeebled  veins.     And  in  fine,  the  whole  mysterious 
circle  of  life,  moving  with  such  great  effort,  seemed 
from  moment  to  moment  about  to  pause  forever. 
Perhaps  the  great  cerebral  sponge,  beginning  and 
end   of   that    mysterious   circle,   had    prepotently 
sucked  up  all  the  vital  forces,  and  itself  consumed 
in  a  brief  time  all  that  was  meant  to  suffice  the 
whole  system  for  a  long  period.     However  it  may 
be,  the  life  of  Leopardi  was  not  a  course,  as  in 
most  men,  but  truly  a  precipitation  toward  death.'7 
Some  years  before  he  died,  Leopardi  had  a  pre 
sentiment  of  his  death,  and  his  end  was  perhaps 
hastened    by   the    nervous    shock   of    the   terror 
produced  by  the  cholera,  which  was  then  raging 
in  Naples.     At  that  time  the  body  of  a  Neapolitan 
minister  of  state  who  had  died  of  cholera  was  cast 
into  the  common  burial-pit  at  Naples  —  such  was 
the  fear  of  contagion,  and  so  rapidly  were  the  dead 
hurried  to  the  grave.     A  heavy  bribe  secured  the 
remains  of  Leopardi  from  this  fate,  and  his  dust 
now  reposes  in  a  little  church  on  the  road  to  Poz- 
zuoli. 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  257 

II 

"  IN  the  years  of  boyhood,'7  says  the  Neapolitan 
critic,  Francesco  de  Sanctis,  "Leopardi  saw  his 
youth  vanish  forever  5  he  lived  obscure,  and 
achieved  posthumous  envy  and  renown  j  he  was 
rich  and  noble,  and  he  suffered  from  want  and 
despite  j  no  woman's  love  ever  smiled  upon  him, 
the  solitary  lover  of  his  own  mind,  to  which  he 
gave  the  names  of  Sylvia,  Aspasia,  and  Nerina. 
Therefore,  with  a  precocious  and  bitter  penetra 
tion,  he  held  what  we  call  happiness  for  illusions 
and  deceits  of  fancy ;  the  objects  of  our  desire  he 
called  idols,  our  labors  idleness,  and  everything 
vanity.  Thus  he  saw  nothing  here  below  equal  to 
his  own  intellect,  or  that  was  worthy  the  throb  of 
his  heart ;  and  inertia,  rust,  as  it  were,  even  more 
than  pain  consumed  his  life,  alone  in  what  he 
called  this  formidable  desert  of  the  world.  In 
such  solitude  life  becomes  a  dialogue  of  man  with 
his  own  soul,  and  the  internal  colloquies  render 
more  bitter  and  intense  the  affections  which  have 
returned  to  the  heart  for  want  of  nourishment  in 
the  world.  Mournful  colloquies  and  yet  pleasing, 
where  man  is  the  suicidal  vulture  perpetually 
preying  upon  himself,  and  caressing  the  wound 
that  drags  him  to  the  grave.  .  .  .  The  first  cause 
of  his  sorrow  is  Recanati :  the  intellect,  capable  of 
the  universe,  feels  itself  oppressed  in  an  obscure 
village,  cruel  to  the  body  and  deadly  to  the  spirit. 
.  .  .  He  leaves  Recanati;  he  arrives  in  Rome  5  we 
believe  him  content  at  last,  and  he  too  believes  it. 


258  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Brief  illusion !  Rome,  Bologna,  Milan,  Florence, 
Naples,  are  all  different  places,  where  he  forever 
meets  the  same  man,  himself.  Read  the  first  letter 
that  he  writes  from  Rome:  'In  the  great  things  I 
see  I  do  not  feel  the  least  pleasure,  for  I  know  that 
they  are  marvelous,  but  I  do  not  feel  it,  and  I 
assure  you  that  their  multitude  and  grandeur 
wearied  me  after  the  first  day.7  ...  To  Leopardi 
it  is  rarely  given  to  interest  himself  in  any  spec 
tacle  of  nature,  and  he  never  does  it  without  a 
sudden  and  agonized  return  to  himself.  .  .  .  Malign 
and  heartless  men  have  pretended  that  Leopardi 
was  a  misanthrope,  a  fierce  hater  and  enemy  of  the 
human  race !  .  .  .  Love,  inexhaustible  and  almost 
ideal,  was  the  supreme  craving  of  that  angelic 
heart,  and  never  left  it  during  life.  '  Love  me,  for 
God's  sake,'  he  beseeches  his  brother  Carlo ;  '  I 
have  need  of  love,  love,  love,  fire,  enthusiasm,  life.7 
And  in  truth  it  may  be  said  that  pain  and  love  form 
the  twofold  poetry  of  his  life." 

Leopardi  lived  in  Italy  during  the  long  contest 
between  the  Classic  and  Romantic  schools,  and  it 
may  be  said  that  in  him  many  of  the  leading  ideas 
of  both  parties  were  reconciled.  His  literary  form 
was  as  severe  and  sculpturesque  as  that  of  Alfieri 
himself,  whilst  the  most  subjective  and  introspect 
ive  of  the  Romantic  poets  did  not  so  much  color  the 
world  with  his  own  mental  and  spiritual  hue  as  Leo 
pardi.  It  is  not  plain  whether  he  ever  declared 
himself  for  one  theory  or  the  other.  He  was  a 
contributor  to  the  literary  journal  which  the  parti 
sans  of  the  Romantic  School  founded  at  Florence; 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  259 

but  he  was  a  man  so  weighed  upon  by  his  own 
sense  of  the  futility  and  vanity  of  all  things  that 
he  could  have  had  little  spirit  for  mere  literary 
contentions.  His  admirers  try  hard  to  make  out 
that  he  was  positively  and  actively  patriotic  5  and 
it  is  certain  that  in  his  earlier  youth  he  disagreed 
with  his  father's  conservative  opinions,  and  de 
spised  the  existing  state  of  things ;  but  later  in  life 
he  satirized  the  aspirations  and  purposes  of  prog 
ress,  though  without  sympathizing  with  those  of 
reaction. 

The  poem  which  his  chief  claim  to  classification 
with  the  poets  militant  of  his  time  rests  upon  is 
that  addressed  "  To  Italy."  Those  who  have  read 
even  only  a  little  of  Leopardi  have  read  it  j  and  I 
must  ask  their  patience  with  a  version  which  drops 
the  irregular  rhyme  of  the  piece  for  the  sake  of 
keeping  its  peculiar  rhythm  and  measure. 

My  native  land,  I  see  the  walls  and  arches, 
The  columns  and  the  statues,  and  the  lonely 
Towers  of  our  ancestors, 
But  not  their  glory,  not 
The  laurel  and  the  steel  that  of  old  time 
Our  great  forefathers  bore.     Disarmed  now, 
Naked  thou  showest  thy  forehead  and  thy  breast ! 
O  me,  how  many  wounds, 

What  bruises  and  what  blood!     How  do  I  see  thee, 
Thou  loveliest  Lady!     Unto  Heaven  I  cry, 
And  to  the  world:   "  Say,  say, 

Who  brought  her  unto  this  ? "     To  this  and  worse, 
For  both  her  arms  are  loaded  down  with  chains, 
So  that,  unveiled  and  with  disheveled  hair, 


260  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

She  crouches  all  forgotten  and  forlorn, 

Hiding  her  beautiful  face 

Between  her  knees,  and  weeps. 

"Weep,  weep,  for  well  thou  may'st,  my  Italy! 

Born,  as  thou  wert,  to  conquest, 

Alike  in  evil  and  in  prosperous  sort! 

If  thy  sweet  eyes  were  each  a  living  stream, 
Thou  could'st  not  weep  enough 
For  all  thy  sorrow  and  for  all  thy  shame. 
For  thou  wast  queen,  and  now  thou  art  a  slave. 
Who  speaks  of  thee  or  writes, 
That  thinking  on  thy  glory  in  the  past 
But  says,  "  She  was  great  once,  but  is  no  more." 
Wherefore,    oh,    wherefore  ?     Where    is    the    ancient 

strength, 

The  valor  and  the  arms,  and  constancy? 
Who  rent  the  sword  from  thee? 
Who  hath  betrayed  thee?     What  art,  or  what  toil, 
Or  what  o'erwhelming  force, 

Hath  stripped  thy  robe  and  golden  wreath  from  thee? 
How  did'st  thou  fall,  and  when, 
From  such  a  height  unto  a  depth  so  low? 
Doth  no  one  fight  for  thee,  no  one  defend  thee, 
None  of  thy  own?    Arms,  arms!     For  I  alone 
Will  fight  and  fall  for  thee. 
Grant  me,  0  Heaven,  my  blood 
Shall  be  as  fire  unto  Italian  hearts! 

Where  are  thy  sons?     I  hear  the  sound  of  arms, 
Of  wheels,  of  voices,  and  of  drums  j 
In  foreign  fields  afar 
Thy  children  fight  and  fall. 
Wait,  Italy,  wait!    I  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
A  tumult  as  of  infantry  and  horse, 
And  smoke  and  dust,  and  the  swift  flash  of  swords 
Like  lightning  among  clouds. 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  261 

Wilt  thou  not  hope?    Wilt  thou  not  lift  and  turn 

Thy  trembling  eyes  upon  the  doubtful  close? 

For  what,  in  yonder  fields, 

Combats  Italian  youth?     0  gods,  ye  gods, 

For  other  lands  Italian  swords  are  drawn! 

Oh,  misery  for  him  who  dies  in  war, 

Not  for  his  native  shores  and  his  beloved, 

His  wife  and  children  dear, 

But  by  the  foes  df  others 

For  others'  cause,  and  cannot  dying  say, 

"Dear  land  of  mine, 

The  life  thou  gavest  me  I  give  thee  back." 

This  suffers,  of  course,  in  translation,  but  I  con 
fess  that  in  the  original  it  wears  something  of  the 
same  perfunctory  air.  His  patriotism  was  the 
fever-flame  of  the  sick  man's  blood  j  his  real  coun 
try  was  the  land  beyond  the  grave,  and  there  is  a 
far  truer  note  in  this  address  to  Death. 

And  thou,  that  ever  from  my  life's  beginning 

I  have  invoked  and  honored, 

Beautiful  Death!   who  only 

Of  all  our  earthly  sorrows  knowest  pity: 

If  ever  celebrated 

Thou  wast  by  me ;   if  ever  I  attempted 

To  recompense  the  insult 

That  vulgar  terror  offers 

Thy  lofty  state,  delay  no  more,  but  listen 

To  prayers  so  rarely  uttered: 

Shut  to  the  light  forever, 

Sovereign  of  time,  these  eyes  of  weary  anguish! 

I  suppose  that  Italian  criticism  of  the  present 
day  would  not  give  Leopardi  nearly  so  high  a  place 


262  MODERN   ITALIAN    POETS. 

among  the  poets  as  his  friend  Ranieri  claims  for 
him  and  his  contemporaries  accorded.  He  seems 
to  have  been  the  poet  of  a  national  mood ;  he  was 
the  final  expression  of  that  long,  hopeless  apathy 
in  which  Italy  lay  bound  for  thirty  years  after  the 
fall  of  Napoleon  and  his  governments,  and  the 
reestablishment  of  all  the  little  despots,  native  and 
foreign,  throughout  the  peninsula.  In  this  time 
there  was  unrest  enough,  and  revolt  enough  of  a 
desultory  and  unorganized  sort,  but  every  strug 
gle,  apparently  every  aspiration,  for  a  free  political 
and  religious  life  ended  in  a  more  solid  confirma 
tion  of  the  leaden  misrule  which  weighed  down  the 
hearts  of  the  people.  To  such  an  apathy  the  pen 
sive  monotone  of  this  sick  poet's  song  might  well 
seem  the  only  truth  •  and  one  who  beheld  the  uni 
verse  with  the  invalid's  loath  eyes,  and  reasoned 
from  his  own  irremediable  ills  to  a  malign  mystery 
presiding  over  all  human  affairs,  and  ordering  a  sad 
destiny  from  which  there  could  be  no  defense  but 
death,  might  have  the  authority  of  a  prophet  among 
those  who  could  find  no  promise  of  better  things  in 
their  earthly  lot. 

Leopardi's  malady  was  such  that  when  he  did  not 
positively  suffer  he  had  still  the  memory  of  pain, 
and  he  was  oppressed  with  a  dreary  ennui,  from 
which  he  could  not  escape.  Death,  oblivion,  anni 
hilation,  are  the  thoughts  upon  which  he  broods, 
and  which  fill  his  verse.  The  passing  color  of  other 
men's  minds  is  the  prevailing  cast  of  his,  and  he, 
probably  with  far  more  sincerity  than  any  other 
poet,  nursed  his  despair  in  such  utterances  as  this : 


GIACOMO  LEOPARDI.  263 

TO  HIMSELF. 
^ 

y     Now  thou  shalt  rest  forever, 

O  weary  heart!     The  last  deceit  is  ended, 

For  I  believed  myself  immortal.    Cherished 

Hopes,  and  beloved  delusions, 

And  longings  to  be  deluded, —  all  are  perished! 

Rest  thee  forever!     Oh,  greatly, 

Heart,  hast  thou  palpitated.     There  is  nothing 

Worthy  to  move  thee  more,  nor  is  earth  worthy 

Thy  sighs.     For  life  is  only 

Bitterness  and  vexation;   earth  is  only 

A  heap   of  dust.     So  rest  thee! 

Despair  for  the  last  time.     To  our  race  Fortune 

Never  gave  any  gift  but  death.     Disdain,  then, 

Thyself  and  Nature  and  the  Power 

Occultly  reigning  to  the  common  ruin : 

Scorn,  heart,  the  infinite  emptiness  of  all  things! 

Nature  was  so  cruel  a  stepmother  to  this  man 
that  he  could  see  nothing  but  harm  even  in  her 
apparent  beneficence,  and  his  verse  repeats  again 
and  again  his  dark  mistrust  of  the  very  loveliness 
which  so  keenly  delights  his  sense.  One  of  his 
early  poems,  called  "The  Quiet  after  the  Storm," 
strikes  the  key  in  which  nearly  all  his  songs  are 
pitched.  The  observation  of  nature  is  very  sweet 
and  honest,  and  I  cannot  see  that  the  philosophy 
in  its  perversion  of  the  relations  of  physical  and 
spiritual  facts  is  less  mature  than  that  of  his  later 
work :  it  is  a  philosophy  of  which  the  first  concep 
tion  cannot  well  differ  from  the  final  expression. 

....   See  yon  blue  sky  that  breaks 

The  clouds  above  the  mountain  in  the  west! 


264  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  fields  disclose  themselves, 

And  in  the  valley  bright  the  river  runs. 

All  hearts  are  glad;   on  every  side 

Arise  the  happy  sounds 

Of  toil  begun  anew. 

The  workman,  singing,  to  the  threshold  comes, 

With  work  in  hand,  to  judge  the  sky, 

Still  humid,  and  the  damsel  next, 

On  his  report,  comes  forth  to  brim  her  pail 

With  the  fresh-fallen  rain. 

The  noisy  fruiterers 

From  lane  to  lane  resume 

Their  customary  cry. 

The  sun  looks  out  again,  and  smiles  upon 

The  houses  and  the  hills.     Windows  and  doors 

Are  opened  wide;   and  on  the  far-off  road 

You  hear  the  tinkling  bells  and  rattling  wheels 

Of  travelers  that  set  out  upon  their  journey. 

Every  heart  is  glad; 

So  grateful  and  so  sweet 

When  is  our  life  as  now1? 

0  Pleasure,  child  of  Pain, 

Vain  joy  which  is  the  fruit 

Of  bygone  suffering  overshadowed 

And  wrung  with  cruel  fears 

Of  death,  whom  life  abhors; 

Wherein,  in  long  suspense, 

Silent  and  cold  and  pale, 

Man  sat,  and  shook  and  shuddered  to  behold 

Lightnings  and  clouds  and  winds, 

Furious  in  his  offense! 

Beneficent  Nature,  these, 

These  are  thy  bounteous  gifts; 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  265 

These,  these  are  the  delights 

Thou  offerest  unto  mortals!    To  escape 

From  pain  is  bliss  to  us; 

Anguish  thou  scatterest  broadcast,  and  our  woes 

Spring  up  spontaneous,  and  that  little  joy 

Born  sometimes,  for  a  miracle  and  show, 

Of  terror  is  our  mightiest  gain.     0  man, 

Dear  to  the  gods,  count  thyself  fortunate 

If  now  and  then  relief 

Thou  hast  from  pain,  and  blest 

When  death  shall  come  to  heal  thee  of  all  pain! 

"  The  bodily  deformities  which  humiliated  Leo- 
pardi,  and  the  cruel  infirmities  that  agonized  him 
his  whole  life  long,  wrought  in  his  heart  an  invin 
cible  disgust,  which  made  him  invoke  death  as  the 
sole  relief.  His  songs,  while  they  express  discon 
tent,  the  discord  of  the  world,  the  conviction  of  the 
nullity  of  human  things,  are  exquisite  in  style  5  they 
breathe  a  perpetual  melancholy,  which  is  often  sub 
lime,  and  they  relax  and  pain  your  soul  like  the 
music  of  a  single  chord,  while  their  strange  sweet 
ness  wins  you  to  them  again  and  again."  This  is 
the  language  of  an  Italian  critic  who  wrote  after 
Leopardi's  death,  when  already  it  had  begun  to  be 
doubted  whether  he  was  the  greatest  Italian  poet 
since  Dante.  A  still  later  critic  finds  Leopardi's 
style,  "  without  relief,  without  lyric  flight,  without 
the  great  art  of  contrasts,  without  poetic  leaven," 
hard  to  read.  "  Despoil  those  verses  of  their  mas 
terly  polish,"  he'  says,  "reduce  those  thoughts  to 
prose,  and  you  will  see  how  little  they  are  akin  to 
poetry." 
' 


266  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

I  have  a  feeling  that  my  versions  apply  some  such 
test  to  Leopardi's  work,  and  that  the  reader  sees  it 
in  them  at  much  of  the  disadvantage  which  this 
critic  desires  for  it.  Yet,  after  doing  my  worst,  I 
am  not  wholly  able  to  agree  with  him.  It  seems 
to  me  that  there  is  the  indestructible  charm  in  it 
which,  wherever  we  find  it,  we  must  call  poetry. 
It  is  true  that  "its  strange  sweetness  wins  you 
again  and  again,'?  and  that  this  "  lonely  pipe  of 
death"  thrills  and  solemnly  delights  as  no  other 
stop  has  done.  Let  us  hear  it  again,  as  the  poet 
sounds  it,  figuring  himself  a  Syrian  shepherd, 
guarding  his  flock  by  night,  and  weaving  his  song 
under  the  Eastern  moon  : 

0  flock  that  liest  at  rest,  0  blessed  thou 
That  knowest  not  thy  fate,  however  hard, 
How  utterly  I  envy  thee! 

Not  merely  that  thou  goest  almost  free 

Of  all  this  weary  pain, — 

That  every  misery  and  every  toil 

And  every  fear  thou  straightway  dost  forget, — 

But  most  because  thou  knowest  not  ennui 

When  on  the  grass  thou  liest  in  the  shade. 

1  see  thee  tranquil  and  content, 
And  great  part  of  thy  years 
Untroubled  by  ennui  thou  passest  thus. 
I  likewise  in  the  shadow,  on  the  grass, 
Lie,  and  a  dull  disgust  beclouds 

My  soul,  and  I  am  goaded  with  a  spur, 

So  that,  reposing,  I  am  farthest  still 

From  finding  peace  or  place. 

And  yet  I  want  for  naught, 

And  have  not  had  till  now  a  cause  for  tears. 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  267 

What  is  thy  bliss,  how  much, 

I  cannot  tell;  but  thou  art  fortunate. 

Or,  it  may  be,  my  thought 

Errs,  running  thus  to  others'  destiny; 

May  be,  to  everything, 

Wherever  born,  in-  cradle  or  in  fold, 

That  day  is  terrible  when  it  was  born. 

It  is  the  same  note,  the  same  voice ;  the  theme 
does  not  change,  but  perhaps  it  is  deepened  in  this 
ode: 

ON    THE    LIKENESS    OF    A    BEAUTIFUL     WOMAN    CARVEN 
UPON    HER    TOMB. 

Such  wast  thou:  now  under  earth 

A  skeleton  and  dust.    O'er  dust  and  bones 

Immovably  and  vainly  set,  and  mute, 

Looking  upon  the  flight  of  centuries, 

Sole  keeper  of  memory 

And  of  regret  is  this  fair  counterfeit 

Of  loveliness  now  vanished.     That  sweet  look, 

Which  made  men  tremble  when  it  fell  on  them, 

As  now  it  falls  on  me ;   that  lip,  which  once, 

Like  some  full  vase  of  sweets, 

Ean  over  with  delight;   that  fair  neck,  clasped 

By  longing,  and  that  soft  and  amorous  hand, 

Which  often  did  impart 

An  icy  thrill  unto  the  hand  it  touched; 

That  breast,  which  visibly 

Blanched  with  its  beauty  him  who  looked  on  it  — 

All  these  things  were,  and  now 

Dust  art  thou,  filth,  a  fell 

And  hideous  sight  hidden  beneath  a  stone. 


268  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Thus  fate  hath  wrought  its  will 
Upon  the  semblance  that  to  us  did  seem 
Heaven's  vividest  image !     Eternal  mystery 
Of  mortal  being !     To-day  the  ineffable 
Fountain  of  thoughts  and  feelings  vast  and  high. 
Beauty  reigns  sovereign,  and  seems 
Like  splendor  thrown  afar 
From  some  immortal  essence  on  these  sands, 
To  give  our  mortal  state 
A  sign  and  hope  secure  of  destinies 
Higher  than  human,  and  of  fortunate  realms, 
And  golden  worlds  unknown. 
To-morrow,  at  a  touch, 
Loathsome  to  see,  abominable,  abject, 
Becomes  the  thing  that  was 
All  but  angelical  before; 
And  from  men's  memories 
All  that  its  loveliness 
Inspired  forever  faints  and  fades  away. 

Ineffable  desires 
And  visions  high  and  pure 
Eise  in  the  happy  soul, 
Lulled  by  the  sound  of  cunning  harmonies 
Whereon  the  spirit  floats, 
As  at  his  pleasure  floats 
Some  fearless  swimmer  over  the  deep  sea; 
But  if  a  discord  strike 
The  wounded  sense,  to  naught 
All  that  fair  paradise  in  an  instant  falls. 

Mortality!  if  thou 
Be  wholly  frail  and  vile, 
Be  only  dust  and  shadow,  how  canst  thou 
So  deeply  feeH    And  if  thou  be 


GIACOMO    LEOPAEDI.  269 

In  part  divine,  how  can  thy  will  and  thought 

By  things  so  poor  and  base 

So  easily  be  awakened  and  quenched? 

Let  us  touch  for  the  last  time  this  pensive  chord, 
and  listen  to  its  response  of  hopeless  love.  This 
poem,  in  which  he  turns  to  address  the  spirit  of  the 
poor  child  whom  he  loved  boyishly  at  Recanati,  is 
pathetic  with  the  fact  that  possibly  she  alone  ever 
reciprocated  the  tenderness  with  which  his  heart 
was  filled. 

TO    SYLVIA. 

Sylvia,  dost  thou  remember 
In  this  that  season  of  thy  mortal  being 
When  from  thine  eyes  shone  beauty, 
In  thy  shy  glances  fugitive  and  smiling, 
And  joyously  and  pensively  the  borders 
Of  childhood  thou  did'st  traverse? 

All  day  the  quiet  chambers 
And  the  ways  near  resounded 
To  thy  perpetual  singing, 
When  thou,  intent  upon  some  girlish  labor, 
Sat'st  utterly  contented, 

With  the  fair  future  brightening  in  thy  vision. 
It  was  the  fragrant  month  of  May,  and  ever 
Thus  thou  thy  days  beguiledst. 

I,  leaving  my  fair  studies, 

Leaving  my  manuscripts  and  toil-stained  volumes, 
Wherein  I  spent  the  better 
Part  of  myself  and  of  my  young  existence, 
Leaned  sometimes  idly  from  my  father's  windows, 
And  listened  to  the  music  of  thy  singing, 


270  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

And  to  thy  hand,  that  fleetly 

Ran  o'er  the  threads  of  webs  that  thou  wast  weaving1. 

I  looked  to  the  calm  heavens, 

Unto  the  golden  lanes  and  orchards, 

And  unto  the  far  sea  and  to  the  mountains: 

No  mortal  tongue  may  utter 

What  in  my  heart  I  felt  then. 

0  Sylvia  mine,  what  visions, 

What  hopes,  what  hearts,  we  had  in  that  far  season ! 
How  fair  and  good  before  us 
Seemed  human  life  and  fortune ! 
When  I  remember  hope  so  great,  beloved, 
An  utter  desolation 
And  bitterness  o'erwhelm  me, 
And  I  return  to  mourn  my  evil  fortune. 
0  Nature,  faithless  Nature, 
Wherefore  dost  thou  not  give  us 
That  which  thou  promisest?     Wherefore  deceivest, 
With  so  great  guile,  thy  children? 

Thou,  ere  the  freshness  of  thy  spring  was  withered, 
Stricken  by  thy  fell  malady,  and  vanquished, 
Did'st  perish,  0  my  darling!  and  the  blossom 
Of  thy  years  never  sawest; 
Thy  heart  was  never  melted 
At  the  sweet  praise,  now  of  thy  raven  tresses, 
Now  of  thy  glances  amorous  and  bashful; 
Never  with  thee  the  holiday-free  maidens 
Reasoned  of  love  and  loving. 

Ah!  briefly  perished,  likewise, 
My  own  sweet  hope;  and  destiny  denied  me 
Vouth,  even  in  my  childhood! 
Alas,  alas,  beloved, 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  271 

Companion  of  my  childhood! 

Alas,  my  mourned  hope !  how  art  thou  vanished 

Out  of  my  place  forever! 

This  is  that  world?  the  pleasures, 

The  love,  the  labors,  the  events,  we  talked  of, 

These,  when  we  prattled  long  ago  together? 

Is  this  the  fortune  of  our  race,  O  Heaven? 

At  the  truth's  joyless  dawning, 

Thou  fellest,  sad  one,  with  thy  pale  hand  pointing 

Unto  cold  death,  and  an  unknown  and  naked 

Sepulcher  in  the  distance. 


Ill 


THESE  pieces  fairly  indicate  the  range  of  Leo- 
pardi,  and  I  confess  that  they  and  the  rest  thab  I 
have  read  leave  me  somewhat  puzzled  in  the  pres 
ence  of  his  reputation.  This,  to  be  sure,  is  largely 
based  upon  his  prose  writings  —  his  dialogues,  full 
of  irony  and  sarcasm  —  and  his  unquestionable 
scholarship.  But  the  poetry  is  the  heart  of  his 
fame,  and  is  it  enough  to  justify  it?  I  suppose 
that  such  poetry  owes  very  much  of  its  peculiar 
influence  to  that  awful  love  we  all  have  of  hover 
ing  about  the  idea  of  death  —  of  playing  with  the 
great  catastrophe  of  our  several  tragedies  and 
farces,  and  of  marveling  what  it  can  be.  There 
are  moods  which  the  languid  despair  of  Leopardi's 
poetry  can  always  evoke,  and  in  which  it  seems 


272  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

that  the  most  life  can  do  is  to  leave  us,  and  let  us 
lie  down  and  cease.  But  I  fancy  we  all  agree  that 
these  are  not  very  wise  or  healthful  moods,  and 
that  their  indulgence  does  not  fit  us  particularly 
well  for  the  duties  of  life,  though  I  never  heard 
that  they  interfered  with  its  pleasures ;  on  the  con 
trary,  they  add  a  sort  of  zest  to  enjoyment.  Of 
course  the  whole  transaction  is  illogical,  but  if  a 
poet  will  end  every  pensive  strain  with  an  appeal 
or  apostrophe  to  death  —  not  the  real  death,  that 
comes  with  a  sharp,  quick  agony,  or  "  after  long 
lying  in  bed/'  after  many  days  or  many  years  of 
squalid  misery  and  slowly  dying  hopes  and  medi 
cines  that  cease  even  to  relieve  at  last ;  not  this 
death,  that  comes  in  all  the  horror  of  undertak 
ing,  but  a  picturesque  and  impressive  abstraction, 
whose  business  it  is  to  relieve  us  in  the  most  effect 
ive  way  of  all  our  troubles,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  avenge  us  somehow  upon  the  indefinitely  un 
grateful  and  unworthy  world  we  abandon  —  if 
a  poet  will  do  this,  we  are  very  apt  to  like  him. 
There  is  little  doubt  that  Leopardi  was  sincere, 
and  there  is  little  reason  why  he  should  not  have 
been  so,  for  life  could  give  him  nothing  but  pain. 

De  Sanctis,  whom  I  have  quoted  already,  and 
who  speaks,  I  believe,  with  rather  more  authority 
than  any  other  modern  Italian  critic,  and  certainly 
with  great  clearness  and  actiteness,  does  not  com 
mit  himself  to  specific  praise  of  Leopardi's  work. 
But  he  seems  to  regard  him  as  an  important 
expression,  if  not  force  or  influence,  and  he  has 
some  words  about  him,  at  the  close  of  his  u  History 


GIACOMO    LEOPARDI.  273 

of  Italian  Literature/7  which  have  interested  me, 
not  only  for  the  estimate  of  Leopardi  which  they 
embody,  but  for  the  singularly  distinct  statement 
which  they  make  of  the  modern  literary  attitude. 
I  should  not,  myself,  have  felt  that  Leopardi  rep 
resented  this,  but  I  am  willing  that  the  reader 
should  feel  it,  if  he  can.  De  Sanctis  has  been 
speaking  of  the  Romantic  period  in  Italy,  when  he 
says: 

"  Giacomo  Leopardi  marks  the  close  of  this 
period.  Metaphysics  at  war  with  theology  had 
ended  in  this  attempt  at  reconciliation.  The  mul 
tiplicity  of  systems  had  discredited  science  itself. 
Metaphysics  was  regarded  as  a  revival  of  theol 
ogy.  The  Idea  seemed  a  substitute  for  providence. 
Those  philosophies  of  history,  of  religion,  of  hu 
manity,  had  the  air  of  poetical  inventions.  .  .  . 
That  reconciliation  between  the  old  and  new,  tol 
erated  as  a  temporary  political  necessity,  seemed 
at  bottom  a  profanation  of  science,  a  moral  weak 
ness.  .  .  .  Faith  in  revelation  had  been  wanting; 
faith  in  philosophy  itself  was  now  wanting.  Mys 
tery  re-appeared.  The  philosopher  knew  as  much 
as  the  peasant.  Of  this  mystery,  Giacomo  Leo 
pardi  was  the  echo  in  the  solitude  of  his  thought 
and  his  pain.  His  skepticism  announced  the  dis 
solution  of  this  theologico-metaphysical  world,  and 
inaugurated  the  reign  of  the  arid  True,  of  the 
Real.  His  songs  are  the  most  profound  and  occult 
voices  of  that  laborious  transition  called  the  nine 
teenth  century.  That  which  has  importance  is 

not  the  brilliant  exterior  of  that  century  of  prog- 
12* 


274  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

ress,  and  it  is  not  without  irony  that  he  speaks 
of  the  progressive  destinies  of  mankind.  That 
which  has  importance  is  the  exploration  of  one's 
own  breast,  the  inner  world,  virtue,  liberty,  love, 
all  the  ideals  of  religion,  of  science,  and  of  po 
etry —  shadows  and  illusions  in  the  presence  of 
reason,  yet  which  warm  the  heart,  and  will  not 
die.  Mystery  destroys  the  intellectual  world  5  it 
leaves  the  moral  world  intact.  This  tenacious  life 
of  the  inner  world,  despite  the  fall  of  all  theologi 
cal  and  metaphysical  worlds,  is  the  originality  of 
Leopardi,  and  gives  his  skepticism  a  religious 
stamp.  .  .  .  Every  one  feels  in  it  a  new  creation. 
The  instrument  of  this  renovation  is  criticism.  .  .  . 
The  sense  of  the  real  continues  to  develop  itself  j 
the  positive  sciences  come  to  the  top,  and  cast  out 
all  the  ideal  and  systematic  constructions.  New 
dogmas  lose  credit.  Criticism  remains  intact.  The 
patient  labor  of  analysis  begins  again.  .  .  .  Social 
ism  re-appears  in  the  political  order,  positivism  in 
the  intellectual  order.  The  word  is  no  longer  lib 
erty,  but  justice.  .  .  .  Literature  also  undergoes 
transformation.  It  rejects  classes,  distinctions, 
privileges.  The  ugly  stands  beside  the  beautiful; 
or  rather,  there  is  no  longer  ugly  or  beautiful, 
neither  ideal  nor  real,  neither  infinite  nor  finite.  .  .  . 
There  is  but  one  thing  only,  the  Living." 


GIUSEPPE   GIUSTI 


GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI,  who  is  the  greatest  Italian  satirist 
of  this  century,  and  is  in  some  respects  the  greatest 
Italian  poet,  was  born  in  1809  at  Mossnmmano  in 
Tuscany,  of  parentage  noble  and  otherwise  distin 
guished  ;  one  of  his  paternal  ancestors  had  assisted 
the  liberal  Grand  Duke  Pietro  Leopoldo  to  compile 
his  famous  code,  and  his  mother's  father  had  been 
a  republican  in  1799.  There  was  also  an  hereditary 
taste  for  literature  in  the  family  •  and  Giusti  says, 
in  one  of  his  charming  letters,  that  almost  as  soon 
as  he  had  learned  to  speak,  his  father  taught  him 
the  ballad  of  Count  Ugolino,  and  he  adds,  "  I  have 
always  had  a  passion  for  song,  a  passion  for  verses, 
and  more  than  a  passion  for  Dante."  His  educa 
tion  passed  later  into  the  hands  of  a  priest,  who 
had  spent  much  time  as  a  teacher  in  Vienna,  and 
was  impetuous,  choleric,  and  thoroughly  German 
in  principle.  "  I  was  given  him  to  be  taught,"  says 
Giusti,  "but  he  undertook  to  tame  me77;  and  he 
remembered  reading  with  him  a  Plutarch  for 
youth,  and  the  "  Lives  of  the  Saints,"  but  chiefly  was, 
as  he  says,  so  "  caned,  contraried,  and  martyred " 
by  him,  that,  when  the  priest  wept  at  their  final 


276  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

parting,  the  boy  could  by  no  means  account  for  the 
burst  of  tenderness.  Giusti  was  then  going  to  Flor 
ence  to  be  placed  in  a  school  where  he  had  the  im 
measurable  good  fortune  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
one  whose  gentleness  and  wisdom  he  remembered 
through  life.  "  Drea  Francioni,"  he  says,  "  had  not 
time  to  finish  his  work,  but  he  was  the  first  and  the 
only  one  to  put  into  my  heart  the  need  and  love 
of  study.  Oh,  better  far  than  stuffing  the  head 
with  Latin,  with  histories  and  with  fables !  Endear 
study,  even  i'f  you  teach  nothing  •  this  is  the  great 
task!77  And  he  afterward  dedicated  his  book  on 
Tuscan  proverbs,  which  he  thought  one  of  his  best 
performances,  to  this  beloved  teacher. 

He  had  learned  to  love  study,  yet  from  this 
school,  and  from  others  to  which  he  was  after 
ward  sent,  he  came  away  with  little  Latin  and  no 
Greek;  but,  what  is  more  important,  he  began  life 
about  this  time  as  a  poet — by  stealing  a  sonnet. 
His  theft  was  suspected,  but  could  not  be  proved. 
"  And  so,"  he  says  of  his  teacher  and  himself,  "  we 
remained,  he  in  his  doubt  and  I  in  my  lie.  Who 
would  have  thought  from  this  ugly  beginning  that 
I  should  really  have  gone  on  to  make  sonnets  of  my 
own?  .  .  .  The  Muses  once  known,  the  vice  grew 
upon  me,  and  from  my  twelfth  to  my  fifteenth  year 
I  rasped,  and  rasped,  and  rasped,  until  finally  I  came 
out  with  a  sonnet  to  Italy,  represented  in  the  usual 
fashion,  by  the  usual  matron  weeping  as  usual  over 
her  highly  estimable  misfortunes.  In  school,  under 
certain  priests  who  were  more  Chinese  than  Italian, 
and  without  knowing  whether  Italy  were  round 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  277 

or  square,  long  or  short,  how  that  sonnet  to  Italy 
should  get  into  my  head  I  don't  know.  I  only 
know  that  it  was  found  beautiful,  and  I  was  ad 
vised  to  hide  it," — that  being  the  proper  thing  to 
do  with  patriotic  poetry  in  those  days. 

After  leaving  school,  Giusti  passed  three  idle  years 
with  his  family,  and  then  went  to  study  the  human 
ities  at  Pisa,  where  he  found  the  cafe  better  adapted 
to  their  pursuit  than  the  University,  since  he  could 
there  unite  with  it  the  pursuit  of  the  exact  sci 
ence  of  billiards.  He  represents  himself  in  his 
letters  and  verses  to  have  led  just  the  life  at  Pisa 
which  was  most  agreeable  to  former  governments 
of  Italy, —  a  life  of  sensual  gayety,  abounding  in 
the  small  excitements  which  turn  the  thought  from 
the  real  interests  of  the  time,  and  weaken  at  once 
the  moral  and  intellectual  fiber.  But  how  far  a 
man  can  be  credited  to  his  own  disgrace  is  one  of 
the  unsettled  questions :  the  repentant  and  the  un 
repentant  are  so  apt  to  over-accuse  themselves.  It 
is  very  wisely  conjectured  by  some  of  Griusti's  biog 
raphers  that  he  did  not  waste  himself  so  much  as 
he  says  in  the  dissipations  of  student  life  at  Pisa. 
At  any  rate,  it  is  certain  that  he  began  there  to 
make  those  sarcastic  poems  upon  political  events 
which  are  so  much  less  agreeable  to  a  paternal  des 
potism  than  almost  any  sort  of  love-songs.  He  is 
said  to  have  begun  by  writing  in  the  manner  of 
Ber  anger,  and  several  critics  have  labored  to  prove 
the  similarity  of  their  genius,  with  scarcely  more 
effect,  it  seems  to  us,  than  those  who  would  make 
him  out  the  Heinrich  Heine  of  Italy,  as  they  call 


278  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

him.  He  was  a  political  satirist,  whose  success  was 
due  to  his  genius,  but  who  can  never  be  thoroughly 
appreciated  by  a  foreigner,  or  even  an  Italian  not 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  affairs  of  his  times ; 
and  his  reputation  must  inevitably  diminish  with 
the  waning  interest  of  men  in  the  obsolete  politics 
of  those  vanished  kingdoms  and  duchies.  How 
mean  and  little  were  all  their  concerns  is  scarcely 
credible;  but  Giusti  tells  an  adventure  of  his,  at 
the  period,  which  throws  light  upon  some  of  the 
springs  of  action  in  Tuscany.  He  had  been  ar 
rested  for  a  supposed  share  in  applause  supposed 
revolutionary  at  the  theater  •  he  boldly  denied  that 
he  had  been  at  the  play.  "  If  you  were  not  at  the 
theater,  how  came  your  name  on  the  list  of  the  ac 
cused?77  demanded  the  logical  commissary.  "  Per 
haps,  "  answered  Giusti,  "  the  spies  have  me  so  much 
in  mind  that  they  see  me  where  I  am  not.  .  .  . 
Here/'  he  continues,  "the  commissary  fell  into  a 
rage,  but  I  remained  firm,  and  cited  the  Count 
Mastiani  in  proof,  with  whom  the  man  often 
dined/' — Mastiani  being  governor  in  Pisa  and  the 
head  of  society.  "  At  the  name  of  Mastiani  there 
seemed  to  pass  before  the  commissary  a  long  array 
of  stewed  and  roast,  eaten  and  to  be  eaten,  so  that 
he  instantly  turned  and  said  to  me,  '  Go,  and  at  any 
rate  take  this  summons  for  a  paternal  admonition.7" 
Ever  since  the  French  Revolution  of  1830,  and 
the  sympathetic  movements  in  Italy,  Giusti  had 
written  political  satires  which  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  in  manuscript  copies,  the  possession  of  which 
was  rendered  all  the  more  eager  and  relishing  by 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  279 

the  pleasure  of  concealing  them  from  spies ;  so  that 
for  a  defective  copy  a  person  by  no  means  rich 
would  give  as  much  as  ten  scudi.  When  a  Swiss 
printed  edition  appeared  in  1844,  half  the  delight 
in  them  was  gone ;  the  violation  of  the  law  being 
naturally  so  dear  to  the  human  heart  that,  when 
combined  with  patriotism,  it  is  almost  a  rapture. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  his  political  satirizing,  Giusti 
felt  the  sting  of  one  who  is  himself  a  greater  satirist 
than  any,  when  he  will,  though  he  is  commonly 
known  for  a  sentimentalist.  The  poet  fell  in  love 
very  seriously  and,  it  proved,  very  unhappily,  as 
he  has  recorded  in  three  or  four  poems  of  great 
sweetness  and  grace,  but  no  very  characteristic 
merit.  This  passion  is  improbably  believed  to 
have  had  a  disastrous  effect  upon  Giusti's  health, 
and  ultimately  to  have  shortened  his  life  ;  but 
then  the  Italians  always  like  to  have  their  poets 
agonizzantij  at  least.  Like  a  true  humorist,  Giusti 
has  himself  taken  both  sides  of  the  question  ;  pro 
fessing  himself  properly  heart-broken  in  the  poems 
referred  to,  and  in  a  letter  written  late  in  life,  after 
he  had  encountered  his  faded  love  at  his  own  home 
in  Pescia,  making  a  jest  of  any  reconciliation  or 
renewal  of  the  old  passion  between  them. 

"  Apropos  of  the  heart,"  says  Giusti  in  this  letter, 
"  you  ask  me  about  a  certain  person  who  once  had 
mine,  whole  and  sound,  roots  and  all.  I  saw  her 
this  morning  in  passing,  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye,  and  I  know  that  she  is  well  and  enjoying 
herself.  As  to  our  coming  together  again,  the 
case,  if  it  were  once  remote,  is  now  impossible; 


280  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

for  you  can  well  imagine  that,  all  things  considered, 
I  could  never  be  such  a  donkey  as  to  tempt  her  to 
a  comparison  of  me  with  myself.  I  am  certain 
that,  after  having  tolerated  me  for  a  day  or  two  for 
simple  appearance'  sake,  she  would  find  some  good 
excuse  for  planting  me  a  yard  outside  the  door. 
In  many,  obstinacy  increases  with  the  ails  and 
wrinkles ;  but  in  me,  thank  Heaven,  there  comes  a 
meekness,  a  resignation,  not  to  be  expressed.  Per 
haps  it  has  not  happened  otherwise  with  her.  In 
that  case  we  could  accommodate  ourselves,  and 
talk  as  long  as  the  evening  lasted  of  magnesia,  of 
quinine,  and  of  nervines;  lament,  not  the  rising 
and  sinking  of  the  heart,  but  of  the  barometer ; 
talk,  not  of  the  theater  and  all  the  rest,  but  whether 
it  is  better  to  crawl  out  into  the  sun  like  lizards, 
or  stay  at  home  behind  battened  windows.  '  G-ood- 
eveuing,  my  dear,  how  have  you  been  to-day?7 
'  Eh  !  you  know,  my  love,  the  usual  rheumatism  ; 
but  for  the  rest  I  don't  complain.'  '  Did  you  sleep 
well  last  night V  'Not  so  bad;  and  you?'  <O, 
little  or  none  at  all ;  and  I  got  up  feeling  as  if  all 
my  bones  were  broken.'  'My  idol,  take  a  little 
laudanum.  Think  that  when  you  are  not  well  I 
suffer  with  you.  And  your  appetite,  how  is  it  ? ' 
1  O,  don't  speak  of  it !  I  can't  get  anything  down.' 
'My  soul,  if  you  don't  eat  you'll  not  be  able  to 
keep  up.'  l  But,  my  heart,  what  would  you  do  if 
the  mouthf uls  stuck  in  your  throat  ? '  '  Take  a  little 
quassia;  .  .  .  but,  dost  thou  remember,  once — ?' 
"  Yes,  I  remember ;  but  once  was  once,'  .  .  .  and 
so  forth,  and  so  forth.  Then  some  evening,  if  a 


GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI. 


282  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

to  encounter  the  Austrians  in  Lombardy;  and 
though  he  was  once  elected  member  of  the  repre 
sentative  body  from  Pescia,  he  did  not  shine  in  it, 
and  refused  to  be  chosen  a  second  time.  His 
letters  of  this  period  afford  the  liveliest  and  truest 
record  of  feeling  in  Tuscany  during  that  memo 
rable  time  of  alternating  hopes  and  fears,  generous 
impulses,  and  mean  derelictions,  and  they  strike 
me  as  among  the  best  letters  in  any  language. 

Giusti  supported  the  Grand  Duke's  return  phil 
osophically,  with  a  sarcastic  serenity  of  spirit,  and 
something  also  of  the  indifference  of  mortal  sick 
ness.  His  health  was  rapidly  breaking,  and  in 
March,  1850,  he  died  very  suddenly  of  a  hemor 
rhage  of  the  lungs. 


ii 


IN  noticing  GiustPs  poetry  I  have  a  difficulty 
already  hinted,  for  if  I  presented  some  of  the 
pieces  which  gave  him  his  greatest  fame  among 
his  contemporaries,  I  should  be  doing,  as  far  as  my 
present  purpose  is  concerned,  a  very  unprofitable 
thing.  The  greatest  part  of  his  poetry  was  inspired 
by  the  political  events  or  passions  of  the  time  at 
which  it  was  written,  and,  except  some  five  or  six 
pieces,  it  is  all  of  a  political  cast.  These  events  are 
now  many  of  them  grown  unimportant  and  obscure, 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  283 

and  the  passions  are,  for  the  most  part,  quite 
extinct  j  so  that  it  would  be  useless  to  give  certain 
of  his  most  popular  pieces  as  historical,  while 
others  do  not  represent  him  at  his  best  as  a  poet. 
Some  degree  of  social  satire  is  involved ;  but  the 
poems  are  principally  light,  brilliant  mockeries  of 
transient  aspects  of  politics,  or  outcries  against 
forgotten  wrongs,  or  appeals  for  long-since-accom 
plished  or  defeated  purposes.  We  know  how  dreary 
this  sort  of  poetry  generally  is  in  our  own  lan 
guage,  after  the  occasion  is  once  past,  and  how 
nothing  but  the  enforced  privacy  of  a  desolate 
island  could  induce  us  to  read,  however  ardent  our 
sympathies  may  have  been,  the  lyrics  about  slavery 
or  the  war,  except  in  very  rare  cases.  The  truth 
is,  the  Muse,  for  a  lady  who  has  seen  so  much  of 
life  and  the  ways  of  the  world,  is  an  excessively 
jealous  personification,  and  is  apt  to  punish  with 
oblivion  a  mixed  devotion  at  her  shrine.  The  poet 
who  desires  to  improve  and  exalt  his  time  must 
make  up  his  mind  to  a  double  martyrdom, —  first, 
to  be  execrated  by  vast  numbers  of  respectable 
people,  and  then  to  be  forgotten  by  all.  It  is  a 
great  pity,  but  it  cannot  be  helped.  It  is  chiefly 
your 

/      Rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades 

who  survives.  Anacreon  lives ;  but  the  poets  who 
appealed  to  their  Ionian  fellow-citizens  as  men  and 
brethren,  and  lectured  them  upon  their  servility 
and  their  habits  of  wine-bibbing  and  of  basking 
away  the  dearest  rights  of  humanity  in  the  sun, 


282  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

to  encounter  the  Austriaiis  in  Lombardy;  and 
though  he  was  once  elected  member  of  the  repre 
sentative  body  from  Pescia,  he  did  not  shine  in  it, 
and  refused  to  be  chosen  a  second  time.  His 
letters  of  this  period  afford  the  liveliest  and  truest 
record  of  feeling  in  Tuscany  during  that  memo 
rable  time  of  alternating  hopes  and  fears,  generous 
impulses,  and  mean  derelictions,  and  they  strike 
me  as  among  the  best  letters  in  any  language. 

Giusti  supported  the  Grand  Duke's  return  phil 
osophically,  with  a  sarcastic  serenity  of  spirit,  and 
something  also  of  the  indifference  of  mortal  sick 
ness.  His  health  was  rapidly  breaking,  and  in 
March,  1850,  he  died  very  suddenly  of  a  hemor 
rhage  of  the  lungs. 


ii 


IN  noticing  Giusti's  poetry  I  have  a  difficulty 
already  hinted,  for  if  I  presented  some  of  the 
pieces  which  gave  him  his  greatest  fame  among 
his  contemporaries,  I  should  be  doing,  as  far  as  my 
present  purpose  is  concerned,  a  very  unprofitable 
thing.  The  greatest  part  of  his  poetry  was  inspired 
by  the  political  events  or  passions  of  the  time  at 
which  it  was  written,  and,  except  some  five  or  six 
pieces,  it  is  all  of  a  political  cast.  These  events  are 
now  many  of  them  grown  unimportant  and  obscure, 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  283 

and  the  passions  are,  for  the  most  part,  quite 
extinct  ;  so  that  it  would  be  useless  to  give  certain 
of  his  most  popular  pieces  as  historical,  while 
others  do  not  represent  him  at  his  best  as  a  poet. 
Some  degree  of  social  satire  is  involved ;  but  the 
poems  are  principally  light,  brilliant  mockeries  of 
transient  aspects  of  politics,  or  outcries  against 
forgotten  wrongs,  or  appeals  for  long-since-accom 
plished  or  defeated  purposes.  We  know  how  dreary 
this  sort  of  poetry  generally  is  in  our  own  lan 
guage,  after  the  occasion  is  once  past,  and  how 
nothing  but  the  enforced  privacy  of  a  desolate 
island  could  induce  us  to  read,  however  ardent  our 
sympathies  may  have  been,  the  lyrics  about  slavery 
or  the  war,  except  in  very  rare  cases.  The  truth 
is,  the  Muse,  for  a  lady  who  has  seen  so  much  of 
life  and  the  ways  of  the  world,  is  an  excessively 
jealous  personification,  and  is  apt  to  punish  with 
oblivion  a  mixed  devotion  at  her  shrine.  The  poet 
who  desires  to  improve  and  exalt  his  time  must 
make  up  his  mind  to  a  double  martyrdom, —  first, 
to  be  execrated  by  vast  numbers  of  respectable 
people,  and  then  to  be  forgotten  by  all.  It  is  a 
great  pity,  but  it  cannot  be  helped.  It  is  chiefly 
your 

/      Rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades 

who  survives.  Anacreon  lives  ;  but  the  poets  who 
appealed  to  their  Ionian  fellow-citizens  as  men  and 
brethren,  and  lectured  them  upon  their  servility 
and  their  habits  of  wine-bibbing  and  of  basking 
away  the  dearest  rights  of  humanity  in  the  sun, 


284=  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

who  ever  heard  of  them  ?  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  Giusti  ever  lectured  his  generation;  he  was 
too  good  an  artist  for  that ;  but  at  least  one  Italian 
critic  forebodes  that  the  figure  he  made  in  the 
patriotic  imagination  must  diminish  rapidly  with 
the  establishment  of  the  very  conditions  he  labored 
to  bring  about.  The  wit  of  much  that  he  said 
must  grow  dim  with  the  fading  remembrance  of 
what  provoked  it;  the  sting  lie  pointless  and  pain 
less  in  the  dust  of  those  who  writhed  under  it, — 
so  much  of  the  poet's  virtue  perishing  in  their 
death.  We  can  only  judge  of  all  this  vaguely  and 
for  a  great  part  from  the  outside,  for  we  cannot 
pretend  to  taste  the  finest  flavor  of  the  poetry 
which  is  sealed  to  a  foreigner  in  the  local  phrases 
and  racy  Florentine  words  which  Giusti  used ;  but 
I  think  posterity  in  Italy  will  stand  in  much  the 
same  attitude  toward  him  that  we  do  now.  Not 
much  of  the  social  life  of  his  time  is  preserved  in 
his  poetry,  and  he  will  not  be  resorted  to  as  that 
satirist  of  the  period  to  whom  historians  are  fond 
of  alluding  in  support  of  conjectures  relative  to 
society  in  the  past.  Now  and  then  he  touches 
upon  some  prevailing  intellectual  or  literary  affec 
tation,  as  in  the  poem  describing  the  dandified, 
desperate  young  poet  of  fashion,  who, 

Immersed  in  suppers  and  balls, 
A  martyr  in  yellow  gloves, 

sings  of  Italy,  of  the  people,  of  progress,  with  the 
rhetoricalities  of  the  modern  Arcadians;  and  he 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  285 

has  a  poem  called  "  The  Ball/7  which  must  fairly,  y 
as  it  certainly  does  wittily,  represent  one  of  those 
anomalous  entertainments  which  rich  foreigners 
give  in  Italy,  and  to  which  all  sorts  of  irregular 
aliens  resort,  something  of  the  local  aristocracy 
appearing  also  in  a  ghostly  and  bewildered  way. 
Yet  even  in  this  poem  there  is  a  political  lesson. 

I  suppose,  in  fine,  that  I  shall  most  interest  my 
readers  in  Giusti,  if  I  translate  here  the  pieces  that 
have  most  interested  me.  Of  all,  I  like  best  the 
poem  which  he  calls  "  St.  Ambrose/7  and  I  think 
the  reader  will  agree  with  me  about  it.  Ifc  seems 
not  only  very  perfect  as  a  bit  of  art,  with  its  subtly 
intended  and  apparently  capricious  mingling  of 
satirical  and  pathetic  sentiment,  but  valuable  for 
its  vivid  expression  of  Italian  feeling  toward  the 
Austrians.  These  the  Italians  hated  as  part  of  a 
stupid  and  brutal  oppression ;  they  despised  them 
somewhat  as  a  torpid- witted  folk,  but  individually 
liked  them  for  their  amiability  and  good  nature, 
and  in  their  better  moments  they  pitied  them  as 
the  victims  of  a  common  tyranny.  I  will  not  be  so 
adventurous  as  to  say  how  far  the  beautiful  mili 
tary  music  of  the  Austrians  tended  to  lighten  the 
burden  of  a  German  garrison  in  an  Italian  city; 
but  certainly  whoever  has  heard  that  music  must 
have  felt,  for  one  base  and  shameful  moment,  that 
the  noise  of  so  much  of  a  free  press  as  opposed  his 
own  opinions  might  be  advantageously  exchanged 
for  it.  The  poem  of  "  St.  Ambrose,"  written  in  1846, 
when  the  Germans  seemed  so  firmly  fixed  in  Milan, 
is  impersonally  addressed  to  some  Italian  holding 


286  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

office  under  the  Austrian  government,  and,  there 
fore,  in  the  German  interest. 


ST.    AMBROSE. 

Your  Excellency  is  not  pleased  with  me 
Because  of  certain  jests  I  made  of  late, 

And,  for  my  putting  rogues  in  pillory, 
Accuse  me  of  being  anti- German.     Wait, 

And  hear  a  thing  that  happened  recently: 

When  wandering  here  and  there  one  day  as  fate 

Led  me,  by  some  odd  accident  I  ran 

On  the  old  church  St.  Ambrose,  at  Milan. 

My  comrade  of  the  moment  was,  by  chance, 
The  young  son  of  one  Sandro* — one  of  those 

Troublesome  heads — an  author  of  romance  — 
Promessi  Sposi — your  Excellency  knows 

The  book,  perhaps0? — has  given  it  a  glance? 
Ah,  no?     I  see!     God  give  your  brain  repose; 

With  graver  interests  occupied,  your  head 

To  all  such  stuff  as  literature  is  dead. 

I  enter,  and  the  church  is  full  of  troops: 
Of  northern  soldiers,  of  Croatians,  say, 

And  of  Bohemians,  standing  there  in  groups 
As  stiff  as  dry  poles  stuck  in  vineyards, — nay, 

As  stiff  as  if  impaled,  and  no  one   stoops 
Out  of  the  plumb  of  soldierly  array ; 

All  stand,  with  whiskers  and  mustache  of  tow, 

Before  their  God  like  spindles  in  a  row. 

*Alessandro  Manzoni. 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  287 

I  started  back:   I  cannot  well  deny 

That  being  rained  down,  as  it  were,  and  thrust 
Into  that  herd  of  human  cattle,  I 

Could  not  suppress  a  feeling  of  disgust 
Unknown,  I  fancy,  to  your  Excellency, 

By  reason  of  your  office.     Pardon!    I  must 
Say  the  church  stank  of  heated  grease,  and  that 
The  very  altar-candles  seemed  of  fat. 

But  when  the  priest  had  risen  to  devote 
The  mystic  wafer,  from  the  band  that  stood 

About  the  altar  came  a  sudden  note 
Of  sweetness  over  my  disdainful  mood; 

A  voice  that,  speaking  from  the  brazen  throat 
Of  warlike  trumpets,  came  like  the  subdued 

Moan  of  a  people  bound  in  sore  distress, 

And  thinking  on  lost  hopes  and  happiness. 

'T  was  Verdi's  tender  chorus  rose  aloof, — 

That  song  the  Lombards  there,  dying  of  thirst, 

Send  up  to  God,  "Lord,  from  the  native  roof." 
O'er  countless  thrilling  hearts  the  song  has  burst, 

And  here  I,  whom  its  magic  put  to  proof, 
Beginning  to  be  no  longer  I,  immersed 

Myself  amidst  those  tallowy  fellow-men 

As  if  they  had  been  of  my  land  and  kin. 

What  would  your  Excellency?    The  piece  was  fine, 
And  ours,  and  played,  too,  as  it  should  be  played  j 

It  drives  old  grudges  out  when  such  divine 
Music  as  that  mounts  up  into  your  head! 

But  when  the  piece  was  done,  back  to  my  line 
I  crept  again,  and  there  I  should  have  staid, 

But  that  just  then,  to  give  me  another  turn, 

From  those  mole-mouths  a  hymn  began  to  yearn: 


288  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

A  German  anthem,  that  to  heaven  went 
On  unseen  wings,  up  from  the  holy  fane; 

It  was  a  prayer,  and  seemed  like  a  lament, 
Of  such  a  pensive,  grave,  pathetic  strain 

That  in  my  soul  it  never  shall  be  spent; 
And  how  such  heavenly  harmony  in  the  brain 

Of  those  thick-skulled  barbarians  should  dwell 

I  must  confess  it  passes  me  to  tell. 

In  that  sad  hymn,  I  felt  the  bitter  sweet 

Of  the  songs  heard  in  childhood,  which  the  soul 

Learns  from  beloved  voices,  to  repeat 
To  its  own  anguish  in  the  days  of  dole; 

A  thought  of  the  dear  mother,  a  regret, 
A  longing  for  repose  and  love, — the  whole 

Anguish  of  distant  exile  seemed  to  run 

Over  my  heart  and  leave  it  all  undone: 

When  the  strain  ceased,  it  left  me  pondering 
Tenderer  thoughts  and  stronger  and  more  clear; 

These  men,  I  mused,  the  self-same  despot  king, 
Who  rules  in  Slavic  and  Italian  fear, 

Tears  from  their  homes  and  arms  that  round  them  cling, 
And  drives  them  slaves  thence,  to  keep  us  slaves  here ; 

From  their  familiar  fields  afar  they  pass 

Like  herds  to  winter  in  some  strange  morass. 

To  a  hard  life,  to  a  hard  discipline, 

Derided,  solitary,  dumb,  they  go; 
Blind  instruments  of  many-eyed  Rapine 

And  purposes  they  share  not,  and  scarce  know; 
And  this  fell  hate  that  makes  a  gulf  between 

The  Lombard  and  the  German,  aids  the  foe 
Who  tramples  both  divided,  and  whose  bane 
Is  in  the  love  and  brotherhood  of  men. 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  289 

Poor  souls!   far  off  from  all  that  they  hold  dear, 
And  in  a  land  that  hates  them!    Who  shall  say 

That  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they  bear 
Love  for  our  tyrant?    I  should  like  to  lay 

They  've  our  hate  for  him  in  their  pockets!    Here, 
But  that  I  turned  in  haste  and  broke  away, 

I  should  have  kissed  a  corporal,  stiff  and  tall, 

And  like  a  scarecrow  stuck  against  the  wall. 

I  could  not  well  praise  this  poem  enough,  with 
out  praising  it  too  much.  It  depicts  a  whole  order 
of  things,  and  it  brings  vividly  before  us  the 
scene  described ;  while  its  deep  feeling  is  so  lightly 
and  effortlessly  expressed,  that  one  does  not  know 
which  to  like  best,  the  exquisite  manner  or  the 
excellent  sense.  To  prove  that  Giusti  was  really  a 
fine  poet,  I  need  give  nothing  more,  for  this  alone 
would  imply  poetic  power;  not  perhaps  of  the 
high  epic  sort,  but  of  the  kind  that  gives  far  more 
comfort  to  the  heart  of  mankind,  amusing  and 
consoling  it.  "Giusti  composed  satires,  but  no 
poems,"  says  a  French  critic;  but  I  think  most 
will  not,  after  reading  this  piece,  agree  with  him. 
There  are  satires  and  satires,  and  some  are  fierce 
enough  and  brutal  enough ;  but  when  a  satire  can 
breathe  so  much  tenderness,  such  generous  human 
ity,  such  pity  for  the  means,  at  the  same  time  with 
such  hatred  of  the  source  of  wrong,  and  all  with  an 
air  of  such  smiling  pathos,  I  say,  if  it  is  not  poetry, 
it  is  something  better,  and  by  all  means  let  us  have 
it  instead  of  poetry.  It  is  humor,  in  its  best  sense ; 
and,  after  religion,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
can  make  men  so  conscious,  thoughtful,  and  modest. 
13 


290  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

A  certain  pensiveness  very  perceptible  in  "  St.  Am 
brose'7  is  the  prevailing  sentiment  of  another  poem 
of  Giusti's,  which  I  like  very  ranch,  because  it  is 
more  intelligible  than  his  political  satires,  and  be 
cause  it  places  the  reader  in  immediate  sympathy 
with  a  man  who  had  not  only  the  subtlety  to  depict 
the  faults  of  the  time,  but  the  sad  wisdom  to  know 
that  he  was  no  better  himself  merely  for  seeing 
them.  The  poem  was  written  in  1844,  and  ad 
dressed  to  Gino  Capponi,  the  life-long  friend  in 
whose  house  Giusti  died,  and  the  descendant  of  the 
great  Gino  Capponi  who  threatened  the  threaten 
ing  Frenchmen  when  Charles  VIII.  occupied  Flor 
ence  :  "  If  you  sound  your  trumpets,"  as  a  call  to 
arms  against  the  Florentines,  "we  will  ring  our 
bells,"  he  said. 

Giusti  speaks  of  the  part  which  he  bears  as  a 
spectator  and  critic  of  passing  events,  and  then 
apostrophizes  himself : 

Who  art  thou  that  a  scourge  so  keen  dost  bear 
And  pitilessly  dost  the  truth  proclaim, 
And  that  so  loath  of  praise  for  good  and  fair, 
So  eager  art  with  bitter  songs  of  blame1? 
Hast  thou  achieved,  in  thine  ideal's  pursuit, 
The  secret  and  the  ministry  of  art? 
Did'st  thou  seek  first  to  kill  and  to  uproot 
All  pride  and  folly  out  of  thine  own  heart 
Ere  turning  to  teach  other  men  their  part? 

0  wretched  scorn!   from  which  alone  I  sing, 
Thou  weariest  and  saddenest  my  soul! 
O  butterfly  that  joyest  on  thy  wing, 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  291 

Pausing  from,  bloom  to  bloom,  without  a  goal  — 
And  thou,  that  singing  of  love  for  evermore, 
Fond  nightingale !  from  wood  to  wood  dost  go, 
My  life  is  as  a  never-ending  war 
Of  doubts,  when  likened  to  the  peace  ye  know, 
And  wears  what  seems  a  smile  and  is  a  throe ! 

There  is  another  famous  poem  of  Giusti's  in  quite 
a  different  mood.  It  is  called  "  Instructions  to  an 
Emissary,"  sent  down  into  Italy  to  excite  a  revolu 
tion,  and  give  Austria  a  pretext  for  interference, 
and  the  supposed  speaker  is  an  Austrian  minister. 
It  is  done  with  excellent  sarcasm,  and  it  is  useful 
as  light  upon  a  state  of  things  which,  whether  it 
existed  wholly  in  fact  or  partly  in  the  suspicion  of 
the  Italians,  is  equally  interesting  and  curious. 
The  poem  was  written  in  1847,  when  the  Italians 
were  everywhere  aspiring  to  a  national  independ 
ence  and  self-government,  and  their  rulers  were 
conceding  privileges  while  secretly  leaguing  with 
Austria  to  continue  the  old  order  of  an  Italy 
divided  among  many  small  tyrants.  The  reader 
will  readily  believe  that  my  English  is  not  as  good 
as  the  Italian. 

INSTRUCTIONS  TO  AN  EMISSARY. 

You  will  go  into.  Italy ;  you  have  here 

Your  passport  and  your  letters  of  exchange  j 

You  travel  as  a  count,  it  would  appear, 
Going  for  pleasure  and  a  little  change ; 

Once  there,  you  play  the  rodomont,  the  queer 
Crack-brain  good  fellow,  idle  gamester,  strange 

Spendthrift  and  madcap.     Give  yourself  full  swing ; 

People  are  taken  with  that  kind  of  thing. 


292  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

When  you  behold  —  and  it  will  happen  so  — 
The  birds  nock  down  about  the  net,  be 

Talk  from  a  warm  and  open  heart,  and  show 
Yourself  with  everybody  bold  and  merry. 

The  North  's  a  dungeon,  say,  a  waste  of  snow, 
The  very  house  and  home  of  January, 

Compared  with  that  fair  garden  of  the  earth, 

Beautiful,  free,  and  full  of  life  and  mirth. 

And  throwing  in  your  discourse  this  word  free, 

Just  to  fill  up,  and  as  by  accident, 
Look  round  among  your  listeners,  and  see 

If  it  has  had  at  all  the  effect  you  meant; 
Beat  a  retreat  if  it  fails,  carelessly 

Talking  of  this  and  that ;  but  in  the  event 
Some  one  is  taken  with  it,  never  fear, 
Push  boldly  forward,  for  the  road  is  clear. 

Be  bold  and  shrewd;  and  do  not  be  too  quick, 
As  some  are,  and  plunge  headlong  on  your  prey 

When,  if  the  snare  shall  happen  not  to  stick, 
Your  uproar  frightens  all  the  rest  away ; 

To  take  your  hare  by  carriage  is  the  trick; 
Make  a  wide  circle,  do  not  mind  delay; 

Experiment  and  work  in  silence ;  scheme 

With  that  wise  prudence  that  shall  folly  seem. 

The  minister  bids  the  emissary,  "  Turn  me  into 
a  jest ;  say  I  'm  sleepy  and  begin  to  dote ;  invent 
what  lies  you  will,  I  give  you  carte-blanche." 

Of  governments  down  yonder  say  this,  too, 

At  the  cafes  and  theaters;   indeed 
For  this,  I  Ve  made  a  little  sign  for  you 

Upon  your  passport  that  the  wise  will  read 
For  an  express  command  to  let  you  do 

Whatever  you  think  best,  and  take  no  heed. 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  293 

Then  the  emissary  is  instructed  to  make  himself 
center  of  the  party  of  extremes,  and  in  different 
companies  to  pity  the  country,  to  laugh  at  moder 
ate  progress  as  a  sham,  and  to  say  that  the  con 
cessions  of  the  local  governments  are  merely  ruses 
to  pacify  and  delude  the  people, — as  in  great  part 
they  were,  though  Giusti  and  his  party  did  not 
believe  so.  The  instructions  to  the  emissary  con 
clude  with  the  charge  to 

Scatter  republican  ideas,  and  say 

That  all  the  rich  and  all  the  well-to-do 

Use  common  people  hardly  better,  nay, 

Worse,  than  their  dogs  ;  and  add  some  hard  words,  too : 

Declare  that  bread  's  the  question  of  the  day, 
And  that  the  communists  alone  are  true; 

And  that  the  foes  of  the  agrarian  cause 

Waste  more  than  half  of  all  by  wicked  laws. 

Then,  he  tells  him,  when  the  storm  begins  to  blow, 
and  the  pockets  of  the  people  feel  its  effect,  and  the 
mob  grows  hungry,  to  contrive  that  there  shall  be 
some  sort  of  outbreak,  with  a  bit  of  pillage, — 

So  that  the  kings  down  there,  pushed  to  the  wall, 
For  congresses  and  bayonets  shall  call. 

If  you  should  have  occasion  to  spend,  spend, 
The  money  won't  be  wasted;   there  must  be 

Policemen  in  retirement,  spies  without  end, 
Shameless  and  penniless;   buy,  you  are  free. 

If  destiny  should  be  so  much  your  friend 

That  you  could  shake  a  throne  or  two  for  me, 

Pour  me  out  treasures.     I  shall  be  content; 

My  gains  will  be  at  least  seven  cent,  per  cent. 


294  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Or,  in  the  event  the  inconstant  goddess  frown, 
Let  me  know  instantly  when  you  are  caught; 

A  thunderbolt  shall  burst  upon  your  crown, 
And  you  become  a  martyr  on  the  spot. 

As  minister  I  turn  all  upside  down, 

Our  government  disowns  you  as  it  ought. 

And  so  the  cake  is  turned  upon  the  fire, 

And  we  can  use  you  next  as  we  desire. 

In  order  not  to  awaken  any  fear 
In  the  post-office,  't  is  my  plan  that  you 

Shall  always  correspond  with  liberals  here; 
Don't  doubt  but  I  shall  hear  of  all  you  do. 

....  's  a  Republican  known  far  and  near ; 
I  have  n't  another  spy  that  's  half  as  true ! 

You  understand,  and  I  need  say  no  more; 

Lucky  for  you  if  you  get  me  up  a  war! 

We  get  the  flavor  of  this,  at  least  the  literary 
flavor,  the  satire,  and  the  irony,  but  it  inevitably 
falls  somewhat  cold  upon  us,  because  it  had  its  ori 
gin  in  a  condition  of  things  which,  though  histor 
ical,  are  so  opposed  to  all  our  own  experience  that 
they  are  hard  to  be  imagined.  Yet  we  can  fancy 
the  effect  such  a  poem  must  have  had,  at  the  time 
when  it  was  written,  upon  a  people  who  felt  in  the 
midst  of  their  aspirations  some  disturbing  element 
from  without,  and  believed  this  to  be  espionage 
and  Austrian  interference.  If  the  poem  had  also 
to  be  passed  about  secretly  from  one  hand  to  an 
other,  its  enjoyment  must  have  been  still  keener; 
but  strip  it  of  all  these  costly  and  melancholy 
advantages,  and  it  is  still  a  piece  of  subtle  and 
polished  satire. 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  295 

Most  of  Giusti's  poems,  however,  are  written  in 
moods  and  manners  very  different  from  this ;  there 
is  sparkle  and  dash  in  the  movement,  as  well  as  the 
thought,  which  I  cannot  reproduce,  and  in  giving 
another  poem  I  can  only  hope  to  show  something 
of  his  varying  manner.  Some  foreigner,  Lamar- 
tine,  I  think,  called  Italy  the  Land  of  the  Dead,— 
whereupon  Giusti  responded  with  a  poem  of  that 
title,  addressed  to  his  friend  Gino  Capponi : 

THE    LAND    OF    THE    DEAD. 

'Mongst  us  phantoms  of  Italians, — 
Mummies  even  from  our  birth, — 

The  very  babies'  nurses 
Help  to  put  them  under  earth. 

'T  is  a  waste  of  holy  water 
When  we  're  taken  to  the  font: 

They  that  make  us  pay  for  burial 
Swindle  us  to  that  amount. 

In  appearance  we  're  constructed 
Much  like  Adam's  other  sons, — 

Seem  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  really 
We  are  nothing  but  dry  bones. 

0  deluded  apparitions, 

What  do  you  do  among  men? 
Be  resigned  to  fate,  and  vanish 

Back  into  the  past  again! 

Ah !   of  a  perished  people 

What  boots  now  the  brilliant  story? 

Why  should  skeletons  be  bothering 
About  liberty  and  glory? 


296  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Why  deck  this  funeral  service 

With  such  pomp  of  torch  and  flower1? 

Let  us,  without  more  palaver, 
Growl  this  requiem,  of  ours. 

And  so  the  poet  recounts  the  Italian  names  dis 
tinguished  in  modern  literature,  and  describes  the 
intellectual  activity  that  prevails  in  this  Land  of 
the  Dead.  Then  he  turns  to  the  innumerable  vis 
itors  of  Italy : 

0  you  people  hailed  down  on  us 

From  the  living,  overhead, 
With  what  face  can  you  confront  us, 

Seeking  health  among  us  dead? 

Soon  or  late  this  pestilential 

Clime  shall  work  you  harm — beware! 

Even  you  shall  likewise  find  it 

Foul  and  poisonous  grave-yard  air. 

0  ye  grim,  sepulchral  friars, 

Ye  inquisitorial  ghouls, 
Lay  down,  lay  down  forever, 

The  ignorant  censor's  tools. 

This  wretched  gift  of  thinking, 

0  ye  donkeys,  is  our  doom; 
Do  you  care  to  expurgate  us, 

Positively,  in  the  tomb? 

Why  plant  this  bayonet  forest 
On  our  sepulchers?   what  dread 

Causes  you  to  place  such  jealous 
Custody  upon  the  dead? 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  297 

Well,  the  mighty  book  of  Nature 
Chapter  first  and  last  must  have ; 

Yours  is  now  the  light  of  heaven, 
Ours  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 

But,  then,  if  you  ask  it, 

We  lived  greatly  in  our  turn; 
We  were  grand  and  glorious,  Gino, 

Ere  our  friends  up  there  were  born! 

O  majestic  mausoleums, 

City  walls  outworn  with  time, 
To  our  eyes  are  even  your  ruins 

Apotheosis  sublime! 

0  barbarian  unquiet, 

Raze  each  storied  sepulcher! 
With  their  memories  and  their  beauty 

All  the  lifeless  ashes  stir. 

O'er  these  monuments  in  vigil 
Cloudless  the  sun  flames  and  glows 

In  the  wind  for  funeral  torches, — 
And  the  violet,  and  the  rose, 

And  the  grape,  the  fig,  the  olive, 

Are  the  emblems  fit  of  grieving; 
'T  is,  in  fact,  a  cemetery 

To  strike  envy  in  the  living. 

Well,  in  fine,  0  brother  corpses, 

Let  them  pipe  on  as  they. like; 
Let  us  see  on  whom  hereafter 

Such  a  death  as  ours  shall  strike! 


298  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

'Mongst  the  anthems  of  the  function 

Is  not  Dies  Irce  1     Nay, 
In  all  the  days  to  come  yet, 

Shall  there  be  no  Judgment  Day? 

In  a  vein  of  like  irony,  the  greater  part  of  Giusti's 
political  poems  are  written,  and  none  of  them  is 
wanting  in  point  and  bitterness,  even  to  a  foreigner 
who  must  necessarily  lose  something  of  their  point 
and  the  tang  of  their  local  expressions.  It  was  the 
habit  of  the  satirist,  who  at  least  loved  the  people's 
quaintness  and  originality  —  and  perhaps  this  is 
as  much  democracy  as  we  ought  to  demand  of  a 
poet  —  it  was  Giusti's  habit  to  replenish  his  vocab 
ulary  from  the  fountains  of  the  popular  speech. 
By  this  means  he  gave  his  satires  a  racy  local  fla 
vor  ;  and  though  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  written 
dialect,  since  Tuscan  is  the  Italian  language,  he 
gained  by  these  words  and  phrases  the  frankness 
and  fineness  of  dialect. 

But  Giusti  had  so  much  gentleness,  sweetness, 
and  meekness  in  his  heart,  that  I  do  not  like  to 
leave  the  impression  of  him  as  a  satirist  last  upon 
the  reader.  Rather  let  me  close  these  meager 
notices  with  the  beautiful  little  poem,  said  to  be 
the  last  he  wrote,  as  he  passed  his  days  in  the  slow 
death  of  the  consumptive.  It  is  called 

A    PRAYER. 

For  the  spirit  confused 
With  misgiving  and  with  sorrow, 
Let  me,  my  Saviour,  borrow 
The  light  of  faith  from  thee. 


GIUSEPPE    GIUSTI.  299 

0  lift  from  it  the  burden 
That  bows  it  down  before  thee. 
With  sighs  and  with  weeping 

1  commend  myself  to  thee ; 
My  faded  life,  thou  knowest, 
Little  by  little  is  wasted 
Like  wax  before  the  fire, 
Like  snow-wreaths  in  the  sun. 
And  for  the  soul  that  panteth 
For  its  refuge  in  thy  bosom, 
Break,  thou,  the  ties,  my  Saviour, 
That  hinder  it  from  thee. 


FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO. 


IN  the  month  of  March,  1848,  news  came  to  Rome 
of  the  insurrection  in  Vienna,  and  a  multitude  of 
the  citizens  assembled  to  bear  the  tidings  to  the 
Austrian  Ambassador,  who  resided  in  the  ancient 
palace  of  the  Venetian  Republic.  The  throng 
swept  down  the  Corso,  gathering  numbers  as  it 
went,  and  paused  in  the  open  space  before  the 
Palazzo  di  Venezia.  At  its  summons,  the  ambas 
sador  abandoned  his  quarters,  and  fled  without 
waiting  to  hear  the  details  of  the  intelligence  from 
Vienna.  The  people,  incited  by  a  number  of  Vene 
tian  exiles,  tore  down  the  double-headed  eagle  from 
the  portal,  and  carried  it  for  a  more  solemn  and 
impressive  destruction  to  the  Piazza  del  Popolo, 
while  a  young  poet  erased  the  inscription  asserting 
the  Austrian  claim  to  the  palace,  and  wrote  in  its 
stead  the  words,  "  Palazzo  della  Dieta  Italiana." 

The  sentiment  of  national  unity  expressed  in  this 
legend  had  been  the  ruling  motive  of  the  young 
poet  Francesco  DalP  Ongaro's  life,  and  had  already 
made  his  name  famous  through  the  patriotic  songs 
that  were  sung  all  over  Italy.  Garibaldi  had  chanted 
one  of  his  Stornelli  when  embarking  from  Monte- 


FRANCESCO  BALL'  ONGARO.          301 

video  in  the  spring  of  1848  to  take  part  in  the  Ital 
ian  revolutions,  of  which  these  little  ballads  had 
become  the  rallying-cries  ;  and  if  the  voice  of  the 
people  is  in  fact  inspired,  this  poet  could  certainly 
have  claimed  the  poet's  long-lost  honors  of  proph 
ecy,  for  it  was  he  who  had  shaped  their  utterance. 
He  had  ceased  to  assume  any  other  sacred  authority, 
though  educated  a  priest,  and  at  the  time  when  he 
devoted  the  Palazzo  di  Venezia  to  the  idea  of  united 
Italy,  there  was  probably  no  person  in  Rome  less 
sacerdotal  than  he. 

Francesco  DalP  Ongaro  was  born  in  1808,  at  an 
obscure  hamlet  in  the  district  of  Oderzo  in  the 
Friuli,  of  parents  who  were  small  freeholders. 
They  removed  with  their  son  in  his  tenth  year  to 
Venice,  and  there  he  began  his  education  for  the 
Church  in  the  Seminary  of  the  Madonna  della  Sa 
lute.  The  tourist  who  desires  to  see  the  Titians 
and  Tintorettos  in  the  sacristy  of  this  superb 
church,  or  to  wonder  at  the  cold  splendors  of  the 
interior  of  the  temple,  is  sometimes  obliged  to  seek 
admittance  through  the  seminary;  and  it  has  doubt 
less  happened  to  more  than  one  of  my  readers  to 
behold  many  little  sedate  old  men  in  their  teens, 
lounging  up  and  down  the  cool,  humid  courts 
there,  and  trailing  their  black  priestly  robes  over 
the  springing  mold.  The  sun  seldom  strikes  into 
that  sad  close,  and  when  the  boys  form  into  long 
files,  two  by  two,  and  march  out  for  recreation, 
they  have  a  torpid  and  melancholy  aspect,  upon 
which  the  daylight  seems  to  smile  in  vain.  They 
march  solemnly  up  the  long  Zattere,  with  a  pale 


302  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

young  father  at  their  head,  and  then  march  sol 
emnly  back  again,  sweet,  genteel,  pathetic  specters 
of  childhood,  and  reenter  their  common  tomb, 
doubtless  unenvied  by  the  hungriest  and  raggedest 
street  boy,  who  asks  charity  of  them  as  they  pass, 
and  hoarsely  whispers  "  Eaven ! "  when  their  leader 
is  beyond  hearing.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  a  boy,  born  poet  among  the  mountains,  and 
full  of  the  wild  and  free  romance  of  his  native 
scenes,  could  love  the  life  led  at  the  Seminary  of 
the  Salute,  even  though  it  included  the  study  of 
literature  and  philosophy.  From  his  childhood 
DalP  Ongaro  had  given  proofs  of  his  poetic  gift, 
and  the  reverend  ravens  of  the  seminary  were 
unconsciously  hatching  a  bird  as  little  like  them 
selves  as  might  be.  Nevertheless,  DalP  Ongaro  left 
their  school  to  enter  the  University  of  Padua  as 
student  of  theology,  and  after  graduating  took 
orders,  and  went  to  Este,  where  he  lived  some  time 
as  teacher  of  belles-lettres. 

At  Este  his  life  was  without  scope,  and  he  was 
restless  and  unhappy,  full  of  ardent  and  patriotic 
impulses,  and  doubly  restricted  by  his  narrow  field 
and  his  priestly  vocation.  In  no  long  time  he  had 
trouble  with  the  Bishop  of  Padua,  and,  abandon 
ing  Este,  seems  also  to  have  abandoned  the  Church 
forever.  The  chief  fruit  of  his  sojourn  in  that 
quaint  and  ancient  village  was  a  poem  entitled  II 
Venerdi  Santo,  in  which  he  celebrated  some  inci 
dents  of  the  life  of  Lord  Byron,  somewhat  as  Byron 
would  have  done.  DalP  Ongaro's  poems,  however, 
confess  the  influence  of  the  English  poet  less  than 


FRANCESCO    DALLJ  ONGARO.  303 

those  of  other  modern  Italians,  whom  Byron  in 
fected  so  much  more  than  his  own  nation. 

From  Este,  DalP  Ongaro  went  to  Trieste,  where 
he  taught  literature  and  philosophy,  wrote  for  the 
theater,  and  established  a  journal  in  which,  for  ten 
years,  he  labored  to  educate  the  people  in  his  ideas 
of  Italian  unity  and  progress.  That  these  did  not 
coincide  with  the  ideas  of  most  Italian  dreamers 
and  politicians  of  the  time  may  be  inferred  from 
\  the  fact  that  he  began  in  1846  a  course  of  lectures 
on  Dante,  in  which  he  combated  the  clerical  ten 
dencies  of  Gioberti  and  Balbo,  and  criticised  the 
first  acts  of  Pius  IX.  He  had  as  profound  doubt 
of  Papal  liberality  as  Niccolini,  at  a  time  when 
other  patriots  were  fondly  cherishing  the  hope  of 
a  united  Italy  under  an  Italian  pontiff;  and  at 
Rome,  two  years  later,  he  sought  to  direct  popular 
feeling  from  the  man  to  the  end,  in  one  of  the  ear 
liest  of  his  graceful  Stornelli. 

PIO  NONO. 
Pio  Nono  is  a  name,  and  not  the  man 

Who  saws  the  air  from  yonder  Bishop's  seat; 
Pio  Nono  is  the  offspring  of  our  brain, 

The  idol  of  our  hearts,  a  vision  sweet; 
Pio  Nono  is  a  banner,  a  refrain, 

A  name  that  sounds  well  sung  upon  the  street. 

Who  calls,  "  Long  live  Pio  Nono!"  means  to  call, 

Long  live  our  country,  and  good-will  to  all! 

And  country  and  good-will,  these  signify 

That  it  is  well  for  Italy  to  die; 

But  not  to  die  for  a  vain  dream  or  hope, 

Not  to  die  for  a  throne  and  for  a  Pope! 


304  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

During  these  years  at  Trieste,  however,  DalP 
Ongaro  seems  to  have  been  also  much  occupied 
with  pure  literature,  and  to  have  given  a  great 
deal  of  study  to  the  sources  of  national  poetry,  as 
he  discovered  them  in  the  popular  life  and  legends. 
He  had  been  touched  with  the  prevailing  romanti 
cism  ;  he  had  written  hymns  like  Manzoni,  and,  like 
Carrer,  he  sought  to  poetize  the  traditions  and  su 
perstitions  of  his  countrymen.  He  found  a  richer 
and  deeper  vein  than  the  Venetian  poet  among  his 
native  hills  and  the  neighboring  mountains  of  Sla- 
vonia,  but  I  cannot  say  that  he  wrought  it  to  much 
better  effect.  The  two  volumes  which  he  published 
in  1840  contain  many  ballads  which  are  very  grace 
ful  and  musical,  but  which  lack  the  fresh  spirit  of 
songs  springing  from  the  popular  heart,  while  they 
also  want  the  airy  and  delicate  beauty  of  the  mod 
ern  German  ballads.  Among  the  best  of  them  are 
two  which  DalP  Ongaro  built  up  from  mere  lines 
and  fragments  of  lines  current  among  the  people, 
as  in  later  years  he  more  successfully  restored 
us  two  plays  of  Menander  from  the  plots  and  a 
dozen  verses  of  each.  "  One  may  imitate,"  he  says, 
"  more  or  less  fortunately,  Manzoni,  Byron,  or  any 
other  poet,  but  not  the  simple  inspirations  of  the 
people.  And  l  The  Pilgrim  who  comes  from  Rome/ 
and  the  '  Rosettina/  if  one  could  have  them  com 
plete  as  they  once  were,  would  probably  make  me 
blush  for  my  elaborate  variations/'  But  study 
which  was  so  well  directed,  and  yet  so  conscious 
of  its  limitations,  could  not  but  be  of  great  value  ; 
and  DalP  Ongaro,  no  doubt,  owed  to  it  his  gift  of 
speaking  so  authentically  for  the  popular  heart. 


FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO.          305 

,  That  which  he  did  later  showed  that  he  studied  the 
people's  thought  and  expression  con  amore,  and  in 
no  vain  sentiment  of  dilettanteism,  or  antiquarian 
research,  or  literary  patronage. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  DalP  Ongaro's  lit 
erary  life  had  at  this  period  an  altogether  object 
ive  tendency.  In  the  volumes  mentioned,  there  is 
abundant  evidence  that  he  was  of  the  same  humor 
as  all  men  of  poetic  feeling  must  be  at  a  certain 

j  time  of  life.  Here  are  pretty  verses  of  occasion, 
upon  weddings  and  betrothals,  such  as  people  write 
in  Italy;  here  are  stanzas  from  albums,  such  as 
people  used  to  write  everywhere  j  here  are  didactic 
lines  j  here  are  bursts  of  mere  sentiment  and  emo 
tion.  In  the  volume  of  Fantasie,  published  at  Flor 
ence  in  1866,  DalP  Ongaro  collected  some  of  the 

'  ballads  from  his  early  works,  but  left  out  the  more 
subjective  effusions. 

I  give  one  of  these  in  which,  under  a  fantastic 
name  and  in  a  fantastic  form,  the  poet  expresses  the 
tragic  and  pathetic  interest  of  the  life  to  which  he 
was  himself  vowed. 

THE    SISTER    OF    THE    MOON. 

Shine,  moon,  ah  shine !   and  let  thy  pensive  light 

Be  faithful  unto  me: 
I  have  a  sister  in  the  lonely  night 

When  I  commune  with  thee. 

Alone  and  friendless  in  the  world  am  I, 

Sorrow's  forgotten  maid, 
Like  some  poor  dove  abandoned  to  die 

By  her  first  love  unwed. 


306  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Like  some  poor  floweret  in  a  desert  land 

I  pass  my  days  alone ; 
In  vain  upon  the  air  its  leaves  expand, 

In  vain  its  sweets  are  blown. 

No  loving  hand  shall  save  it  from  the  waste, 

And  wear  the  lonely  thing; 
My  heart  shall  throb  upon  no  loving  breast 

In  my  neglected  spring. 

That  trouble  which  consumes  my  weary  soul 

No  cunning  can  relieve, 
No  wisdom  understand  the  secret  dole 

Of  the  sad  sighs  I  heave. 

My  fond  heart  cherished  once  a  hope,  a  vow, 

The  leaf  of  autumn  gales! 
In  convent  gloom,  a  dim  lamp  burning  low, 

My  spirit  lacks  and  fails. 

I  shall  have  prayers  and  hymns  like  some  dead  saint 

Painted  upon  a  shrine, 
But  in  love's  blessed  power  to  fall  and  faint, 

It  never  shall  be  mine. 

Born  to  entwine  my  life  with  others,  born 

To  love  and  to  be  wed, 
Apart  from  all  I  lead  my  life  forlorn, 

Sorrow's  forgotten  maid. 

Shine,  moon,  ah  shine!   and  let  thy  tender  light 

Be  faithful  unto  me: 
Speak  to  me  of  the  life  beyond  the  night 

I  shall  enjoy  with  thee. 


FRANCESCO    DALL,'  ONGARO.  307 


IT  will  here  satisfy  the  strongest  love  of  contrasts 
to  turn  from  DalF  Ongaro  the  sentimental  poet  to 
DalF  Ongaro  the  politician,  and  find  him  on  his  feet 
and  making  a  speech  at  a  public  dinner  given  to 
Richard  Cobden  at  Trieste,  in  1847.  Cobden  was 
then,  as  always,  the  advocate  of  free  trade,  and 
DalP  Ongaro  was  then,  as  always,  the  advocate  of 
free  government.  He  saw  in  the  union  of  the 
Italians  under  a  customs-bond  the  hope  of  their 
political  union,  and  in  their  emancipation  from 
oppressive  imposts  their  final  escape  from  yet  more 
galling  oppression.  He  expressed  something  of 
this,  and,  though  repeatedly  interrupted  by  the 
police,  he  succeeded  in  saying  so  much  as  to  secure 
his  expulsion  from  Trieste. 

Italy  was  already  in  a  ferment,  and  insurrec 
tions  were  preparing  in  Venice,  Milan,  Florence, 
and  Rome ;  and  DalF  Ongaro,  consulting  with  the 
Venetian  leaders  Manin  and  Tommaseo,  retired  to 
Tuscany,  and  took  part  in  the  movements  which 
wrung  a  constitution  from  the  Grand  Duke,  and 
preceded  the  flight  of  that  prince.  In  December 
he  went  to  Rome,  where  he  joined  himself  with  the 
Venetian  refugees  and  with  other  Italian  patriots, 
like  D'Azeglio  and  Durando,  who  were  striving  to 
direct  the  popular  mind  toward  Italian  unity.  The 
following  March  he  was,  as  we  have  seen,  one  of 
the  exiles  who  led  the  people  against  the  Palazzo 
di  Venezia.  In  the  mean  time  the  insurrection  of 
the  glorious  Five  Days  had  taken  place  at  Milan, 


308  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

and  the  Lombard  cities,  rising  one  after  another, 
had  driven  out  the  Austrian  garrisons.  Dall'  On- 
garo  went  from  Rome  to  Milan,  and  thence,  by 
advice  of  the  revolutionary  leaders,  to  animate  the 
defense  against  the  Austrians  in  Friuli ;  one  of  his 
brothers  was  killed  at  Palmanuova,  and  another 
severely  wounded.  Treviso,  whither  he  had  re 
tired,  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  he 
went  to  Venice,  then  a  republic  under  the  presi 
dency  of  Manin  5  and  here  he  established  a  popular 
journal,  which  opposed  the  union  of  the  struggling 
republic  with  Piedmont  under  Carlo  Alberto.  DalP 
Ongaro  was  finally  expelled  and  passed  next  to  Ra 
venna,  where  he  found  Garibaldi,  who  had  been 
banished  by  the  Roman  government,  and  was  in 
doubt  as  to  how  he  might  employ  his  sword  on 
behalf  of  his  country.  In  those  days  the  Pope's 
moderately  liberal  minister,  Rossi,  was  stabbed,  and 
Count  Pompeo  Campello,  an  old  literary  friend  and 
acquaintance  of  DalP  Ongaro,  was  appointed  min 
ister  of  war.  With  Garibaldi's  consent  the  poet 
went  to  Rome,  and  used  his  influence  to  such  effect 
that  Garibaldi  was  authorized  to  raise  a  legion  of 
volunteers,  and  was  appointed  general  of  those 
forces  which  took  so  glorious  a  part  in  the  cause 
of  Italian  Independence.  Soon  after,  when  the 
Pope  fled  to  Gaeta,  and  the  Republic  was  pro 
claimed,  Dall'  Ongaro  and  Garibaldi  were  chosen 
representatives  of  the  people.  Then  followed  events 
of  which  it  is  still  a  pang  keen  to  read :  the  troops 
of  the  French  Republic  marched  upon  Rome,  and, 
after  a  defense  more  splendid  and  heroic  than  any 


FRANCESCO  BALL7  ONGARA. 


FRANCESCO  BALL'  ONGARO.          309 

victory,  the  city  fell.  The  Pope  returned,  and  all 
who  loved  Italy  and  freedom  turned  in  exile  from 
Borne.  The  cities  of  the  Romagna,  Tuscany,  Lom- 
bardy,  and  Venetia  had  fallen  again  under  the 
Pope,  the  Grand  Duke,  and  the  Austrians,  and  DalP 
Ongaro  took  refuge  in  Switzerland. 

Without  presuming  to  say  whether  DalP  Ongaro 
was  mistaken  in  his  political  ideas,  we  may  safely 
admit  that  he  was  no  wiser  a  politician  than  Dante 
or  Petrarch.  He  was  an  anti-Papist,  as  these  were, 
and  like  these  he  opposed  an  Italy  of  little  princi 
palities  and  little  republics.  But  his  dream,  unlike 
theirs,  was  of  a  great  Italian  democracy,  and  in 
1848-49  he  opposed  the  union  of  the  Italian  patri 
ots  under  Carlo  Alberto,  because  this  would  have 
tended  to  the  monarchy. 


Ill 


BUT  it  is  not  so  much  with  DalP  Ongaro's  polit 
ical  opinions  that  we  have  to  do  as  with  his  poetry 
of  the  revolutionary  period  of  1848,  as  we  find  in 
it  the  little  collection  of  lyrics  which  he  calls 
"  Stornelli."  These  commemorate  nearly  all  the 
interesting  aspects  of  that  epoch  ;  and  in  their  wit 
and  enthusiasm  and  aspiration,  we  feel  the  spirit 
of  a  race  at  once  the  most  intellectual  and  the 


310  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

most  emotional  in  the  world,  whose  poets  write  as 
passionately  of  politics  as  of  love.  Arnaud  awards 
DalP  Ongaro  the  highest  praise,  and  declares  him 

/  "the  first  to  formulate  in  the  common  language 
of  Italy  patriotic  songs  which,  current  on  the 
tongues  of  the  people,  should  also  remain  the  pat 
rimony  of  the  national  literature.  ...  In  his  popu 
lar  songs/7  continues  this  critic,  "  DalP  Ongaro  has 
given  all  that  constitutes  true,  good,  and  —  not 
the  least  merit  — novel  poetry.  Meter  and  rhythm 
second  the  expression,  imbue  the  thought  with 
harmony,  and  develop  its  symmetry.  .  .  .  How 
enviable  is  that  perspicuity  which  does  not  oblige 
you  to  re-read  a  single  line  to  evolve  therefrom  the 
latent  idea ! "  And  we  shall  have  no  less  to  admire 
the  perfect  art  which,  never  passing  the  intelli 
gence  of  the  people,  is  never  ignoble  in  sentiment 
or  idea,  but  always  as  refined  as  it  is  natural. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  could  better  approach  our 
poet  than  by  first  offering  this  lyric,  written  when, 

I  in  1847,  the  people  of  Leghorn  rose  in  arms  to  repel 
a  threatened  invasion  of  the  Austrians. 

THE  WOMAN  OF  LEGHORN. 

Adieu,  Livorno!  adieu,  paternal  walls! 

Perchance  I  never  shall  behold  you  more ! 
On  father's  and  mother's  grave  the  shadow  falls. 

My  love  has  gone  under  our  flag  to  war; 
And  I  will  follow  him  where  fortune  calls; 

I  have  had  a  rifle  in  my  hands  before. 

The  ball  intended  for  my  lover's  breast, 
Before  he  knows  it  my  heart  shall  arrest; 


FRANCESCO  DALL7  ONGARO.          311 

And  over  his  dead  comrade's  visage  lie 
Shall  pitying-  stoop,  and  look  whom  it  can  be. 
Then  he  shall  see  and  know  that  it  is  I: 
Poor  boy !  how  bitterly  my  love  will  cry ! 

The  Italian  editor  of  the  "Stornelli"  does  not 
give  the  closing  lines  too  great  praise  when  he 
declares  that  "  they  say  more  than  all  the  lament 
of  Tancred  over  Clorinda."  In  this  little  flight  of 
song,  we  pass  over  more  tragedy  than  Messer 
Torquato  could  have  dreamed  in  the  conquest  of 
many  Jerusalems ;  for,  after  all,  there  is  nothing 
so  tragic  as  fact.  The  poem  is  full  at  once  of  the 
grand  national  impulse,  and  of  purely  personal 
and  tender  devotion  j  and  that  fluttering,  vehement 
purpose,  thrilling  and  faltering  in  alternate  lines, 
and  breaking  into  a  sob  at  last,  is  in  every  syllable 
the  utterance  of  a  woman's  spirit  and  a  woman's 
nature. 

Quite  as  womanly,  though  entirely  different,  is 
this  lament,  which  the  poet  attributes  to  his  sister 
for  their  brother,  who  fell  at  Palmanuova,  May  14, 
1848. 

THE  SISTER. 
(Palma,  May  14,  1848.) 
And  he,  my  brother,  to  the  fort  had  gone, 

And  the  grenade,  it  struck  him  in  the  breast  j 
He  fought  for  liberty,  and  death  he  won, 
For  country  here,  and  found  in  heaven  rest. 

And  now  only  to  follow  him  I  sigh; 
A  new  desire  has  taken  me  to  die, — 
To  foUow  him  where  is  no  enemy, 
Where  every  one  lives  happy  and  is  free. 


312  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

All  hope  and  purpose  are  gone  from  this  wom 
an's  heart,  for  whom  Italy  died  in  her  brother,  and 
who  has  only  these  artless,  half -bewildered  words 
of  regret  to  speak,  and  speaks  them  as  if  to  some 
tender  and  sympathetic  friend  acquainted  with  all 
the  history  going  before  their  abrupt  beginning. 
I  think  it  most  pathetic  and  natural,  also,  that  even 
in  her  grief  and  her  aspiration  for  heaven,  her 
words  should  have  the  tint  of  her  time,  and  she 
should  count  freedom  among  the  joys  of  eternity. 

Quite  as  womanly  again,  and  quite  as  different 
once  more,  is  the  lyric  which  the  reader  will  better 
appreciate  when  I  remind  him  how  the  Austrians 
massacred  the  unarmed  people  in  Milan,  in  January, 
1848,  and  how,  later,  during  the  Five  Days,  they 
murdered  their  Italian  prisoners,  sparing  neither 
sex  nor  age.* 

THE  LOMBARD  WOMAN. 
(Milan,  January,  1848.) 

\    Here,  take  these  gaudy  robes  and  put  them  byj 
I  will  go  dress  me  black  as  widowhood; 

I  have  seen  blood  run,  I  have  heard  the  cry 
Of  him  that  struck  and  him  that  vainly  sued. 

Henceforth  no  other  ornament  will  I 
But  on  my  breast  a  ribbon  red  as  blood. 

*  "  Many  foreigners,"  says  Emilio  Dandolo,  in  Ms  restrained 
and  temperate  history  of  l<  I  Volontarii  e  Bersaglieri  Lom- 
bardi,"  "have  cast  a  doubt  upon  the  incredible  ferocity  of  the 
Austrians  during  the  Five  Days,  and  especially  before  evacu 
ating  the  city.  But,  alas !  the  witnesses  are  too  many  to  be 
doubted.  A  Croat  was  seen  carrying  a  babe  transfixed  upon 
his  bayonet.  All  know  of  those  women's  hands  and  ears 


FRANCESCO  BALL7  ONGARO.          313 

And  when  they  ask  what  dyed  the  silk  so  red, 
I  '11  say,  The  life-blood  of  my  brothers  dead. 
And  when  they  ask  how  it  may  cleansed  be, 
I  '11  say,  0,  not  in  river  nor  in  sea; 
Dishonor  passes  not  in  wave  nor  flood; 
My  ribbon  ye  must  wash  in  German  blood.    \ 

The  repressed  horror  in  the  lines, 

I  have  seen  blood  run,  I  have  heard  the  cry 
Qf  him  that  struck  and  him  that  vainly  sued, 

is  the  sentiment  of  a  picture  that  presents  the  scene 
to  the  reader's  eye  as  this  shuddering  woman  saw 
it ;  and  the  heart  of  woman's  fierceness  and  hate  is 
in  that  fragment  of  drama  with  which  the  brief 
poem  closes.  It  is  the  history  of  an  epoch.  That 
epoch  is  now  past,  however ;  so  long  and  so  irre 
vocably  past,  that  DalP  Ongaro  commented  in  a 
note  upon  the  poem  :  "  The  word  '  German '  is  left 
as  a  key  to  the  opinions  of  the  time.  Human 
brotherhood  has  been  greatly  promoted  since  1848. 
German  is  now  no  longer  synonymous  with  en 
emy.  Italy  has  made  peace  with  the  peoples,  and 
is  leagued  with  them  all  against  their  common 
oppressors." 

found  in  the  haversacks  of  the  prisoners ;  of  those  twelve 
unhappy  men  burnt  alive  at  Porta  Tosa ;  of  those  nineteen 
buried  in  a  lime-pit  at  the  Castello,  whose  scorched  bodies 
we  found.  I  myself,  ordered  with  a  detachment,  after  the 
departure  of  the  enemy,  to  examine  the  Castello  and  neigh 
borhood,  was  horror-struck  at  the  sight  of  a  babe  nailed  to  a 
post." 

14 


314  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

There  is  still  another  of  these  songs,  in  which 
the  heart  of  womanhood  speaks,  though  this  time 
with  a  voice  of  pride  and  happiness. 

THE    DECORATION. 

My  love  looks  well  under  his  helmet's  crest; 

He  went  to  war,  and  did  not  let  them  see 
His  back,  and  so  his  wound  is  in  the  breast: 

For  one  he  got,  he  struck  and  gave  them  three. 
When  he  came  back,  I  loved  him,  hurt  so,  best; 

He  married  me  and  loves  me  tenderly. 

When  he  goes  by,  and  people  give  him  way, 

I  thank  God  for  my  fortune  every  day; 

When  he  goes  by  he  seems  more  grand  and  fair 

Than  any  crossed  and  ribboned  cavalier: 

The  cavalier  grew  up  with  his  cross  on, 

And  I  know  how  my  darling's  cross  was  won! 

This  poem,  like  that  of  La  Livornese  and  La 
Donna  Lombarda,  is  a  vivid  picture :  it  is  a  liber 
ated  city,  and  the  streets  are  filled  with  jubilant 
people;  the  first  victorious  combats  have  taken 
place,  and  it  is  a  wounded  hero  who  passes  with 
his  ribbon  on  his  breast.  As  the  fond  crowd  gives 
way  to  him,  his  young  wife  looks  on  him  from  her 
window  with  an  exultant  love,  unshadowed  by  any 
possibility  of  harm : 

Mi  meno  a  moglie  e  mi  vuol  tanto  bene! 

This  is  country  and  freedom  to  her, — this  is  strength 
which  despots  cannot  break, — this  is  joy  to  which 
defeat  and  ruin  can  never  come  nigh ! 


FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO.          315 

It  might  be  any  one  of  the  sarcastic  and  quick 
witted  people  talking  politics  in  the  streets  of  Eome 
in  1847,  who  sees  the  newly  elected  Senator — the 
head  of  the  Roman  municipality,  and  the  legitimate 
mediator  between  Pope  and  people — as  he  passes, 
and  speaks  to  him  in  these  lines  the  dominant  feel 
ing  of  the  moment : 

THE    CARDINALS. 

0  Senator  of  Rome !   if  true  and  well 
You  are  reckoned  honest,  in  the  Vatican, 

Let  it  be  yours  His  Holiness  to  tell, 
There  are  many  Cardinals,  and  not  one  man. 

They  are  made  like  lobsters,  and,  when  they  are  dead, 
Like  lobsters  change  their  colors  and  turn  red; 
And  while  they  are  living,  with  their  backward  gait 
Displace  and  tangle  good  Saint  Peter's  net. 

An  impulse  of  the  time  is  strong  again  in  the 
following  Stornello, — a  cry  of  reproach  that  seems 
to  follow  some  recreant  from  a  beleaguered  camp 
of  true  comrades,  and  to  utter  the  feeling  of  men 
who  marched  to  battle  through  defection,  and  were 
strong  chiefly  in  their  just  cause.  It  bears  the  date 
of  that  fatal  hour  when  the  king  of  Naples,  after  a 
brief  show  of  liberality,  recalled  his  troops  from 
Bologna,  where  they  had  been  acting  against 
Austria  with  the  confederated  forces  of  the  other 
Italian  states,  and  when  every  man  lost  to  Italy 
was  as  an  ebbing  drop  of  her  life's  blood. 


316  MODERN    ITALIAN   POETS. 

THE    DESERTER. 
(Bologna,  May,  1848.) 

Never  did  grain  grow  out  of  frozen  earth  5 
From  the  dead  branch  never  did  blossom  start: 

If  thou  lovest  not  the  land  that  gave  thee  birth, 
Within  thy  breast  thou  bear'st  a  frozen  heart; 

If  thou  lovest  not  this  land  of  ancient  worth, 
To  love  aught  else,  say,  traitor,  how  thou  art! 

To  thine  own  land  thou  could'st  not  faithful  be, — 
Woe  to  the  woman  that  puts  faith  in  thee ! 
To  him  that  trusteth  in  the  recreant,  woe! 
Never  from  frozen  earth  did  harvest  grow: 
To  her  that  trusteth  a  deserter,  shame ! 
Out  of  the  dead  branch  never  blossom  came. 

And  this  song,  so  fine  in  its  picturesque  and  its 
dramatic  qualities,  is  not  less  true  to  the  hope  of 
the  Venetians  when  they  rose  in  1848,  and  intrusted 
their  destinies  to  Daniele  Manin. 

THE    RING    OF    THE    LAST    DOGE. 

I  saw  the  widowed  Lady  of  the  Sea 

Crowned  with  corals  and  sea-weed  and  shells, 

Who  her  long  anguish  and  adversity 

Had  seemed  to  drown  in  plays  and  festivals. 

I  said:    " Where  is  thine  ancient  fealty  fled?  — 
Where  is  the  ring  with  which  Manin  did  wed 
His  bride  f  "     With  tearful  visage  she : 
"An  eagle  with  two  beaks  tore  it  from  me. 
Suddenly  I  arose,  and  how  it  came 
I  know  not,  but  I  heard  my  bridegroom's  name." 
Poor  widow!   't  is  not  he.    Yet  he  may  bring  — 
Who  knows?— back  to  the  bride  her  long-lost  ring. 


FRANCESCO  BALL'  ONGARO.  317 

The  Venetians  of  that  day  dreamed  that  San 
Marco  might  live  again,  and  the  fineness  and  sig 
nificance  of  the  poem  could  not  have  been  lost  on 
the  humblest  in  Venice,  where  all  were  quick  to 
beauty  and  vividly  remembered  that  the  last  Doge 
who  wedded  the  sea  was  named,  like  the  new  Pres 
ident,  Manin. 

I  think  the  Stornelli  of  the  revolutionary  period 
of  1848  have  a  peculiar  value,  because  they  em 
body,  in  forms  of  artistic  perfection,  the  evanes 
cent  as  well  as  the  enduring  qualities  of  popular 
feeling.  They  give  us  what  had  otherwise  been 
lost,  in  the  passing  humor  of  the  time.  They  do 
not  celebrate  the  battles  or  the  great  political  oc 
currences.  If  they  deal  with  events  at  all,  is  it 
with  events  that  express  some  belief  or  longing, — 
rather  with  what  people  hoped  or  dreamed  than 
with  what  they  did.  They  sing  the  Friulan  volun 
teers,  who  bore  the  laurel  instead  of  the  olive  dur 
ing  Holy  Week,  in  token  that  the  patriotic  war  had 
become  a  religion  j  they  remind  us  that  the  first 
fruits  of  Italian  longing  for  unity  were  the  can 
nons  sent  to  the  Romans  by  the  Genoese ;  they  tell 
us  that  the  tricolor  was  placed  in  the  hand  of  the 
statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius  at  the  Capitol,  to  signify 
that  Eome  was  no  more,  and  that  Italy  was  to  be. 
But  the  Stornelli  touch  with  most  effect  those  yet 
more  intimate  ties  between  national  and  individual 
life  that  vibrate  in  the  hearts  of  the  Livornese  and 
the  Lombard  woman,  of  the  lover  who  sees  his 
bride  in  the  patriotic  colors,  of  the  maiden  who 
will  be  a  sister  of  charity  that  she  may  follow  her 


318  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

lover  through  all  perils,  of  the  mother  who  names 
her  new-born  babe  Costanza  in  the  very  hour  of 
the  Venetian  republic's  fall.  And  I  like  the  Stornelli 
all  the  better  because  they  preserve  the  generous 
ardor  of  the  time,  even  in  its  fondness  and  excess. 
After  the  fall  of  Rome,  the  poet  did  not  long 
remain  unmolested  even  in  his  Swiss  retreat.  In 
1852  the  Federal  Council  yielded  to  the  instances 
of  the  Austrian  government,  and  expelled  DalF 
Ongaro  from  the  Republic.  He  retired  with  his 
sister  and  nephew  to  Brussels,  where  he  resumed 
the  lectures  upon  Dante,  interrupted  by  his  exile 
from  Trieste  in  1847,  and  thus  supported  his 
family.  Three  years  later  he  gained  permission 
to  enter  France,  and  up  to  the  spring-time  of  1859 
he  remained  in  Paris,  busying  himself  with  litera 
ture,  and  watching  events  with  all  an  exile's  eager 
ness.  The  war  with  Austria  broke  out,  and  the 
poet  seized  the  long-coveted  opportunity  to  return 
to  Italy,  whither  he  went  as  the  correspondent  of  a 
French  newspaper.  On  the  conclusion  of  peace 
at  Villafranca,  this  journal  changed  its  tone,  and 
being  no  longer  in  sympathy  with  DalP  Ongaro's 
opinions,  he  left  it.  Baron  Ricasoli,  to  induce  him 
to  make  Tuscany  his  home,  instituted  a  chair  of 
comparative  dramatic  literature  in  connection  with 
the  University  of  Pisa,  and  offered  it  to  DalP 
Ongaro,  whose  wide  general  learning  and  special 
dramatic  studies  peculiarly  qualified  him  to  hold  it. 
He  therefore  took  up  his  abode  at  Florence,  dedi 
cating  his  main  industry  to  a  comparative  course 
of  ancient  and  modern  dramatic  literature,  and 


FRANCESCO    DALL,'    ONGARO.  319 

writing  his  wonderful  restorations  of  Menander>s 
"Phasma"  and  "  Treasure."  He  was  well  known 
to  the  local  American  and  English  Society,  and 
was  mourned  by  many  friends  when  he  died  there, 
some  ten  years  ago. 

As  with  DalF  Ongaro  literature  had  always  been 
but  an  instrument  for  the  redemption  of  Italy,  even 
after  his  appointment  to  a  university  professorship 
he  did  not  forget  this  prime  object.  In  nearly  all 
that  he  afterwards  wrote,  he  kept  the  great  aim  of 
his  life  in  view,  and  few  of  the  events  or  hopes  of 
that  dreary  period  of  suspense  and  abortive  effort 
between  the  conclusion  of  peace  at  Villafranca  and 
the  acquisition  of  Venice  went  unsung  by  him. 
Indeed,  some  of  his  most  characteristic  "  Stornelli" 
belong  to  this  epoch.  After  Savoy  and  Nice  had 
been  betrayed  to  France,  and  while  the  Italians 
waited  in  angry  suspicion  for  the  next  demand  of 
their  hated  ally,  which  might  be  the  surrender  of 
the  island  of  Sardinia  or  the  sacrifice  of  the  Geno 
ese  province,  but  which  no  one  could  guess  in  the 
impervious  Napoleonic  silence,  our  poet  wrote : 


THE  IMPERIAL   EGG. 
(Milan,  1862.) 

Who  knows  what  hidden  devil  it  may  be 
Under  yon  mute,  grim  bird  that  looks  our  way?  — 

Yon  silent  bird  of  evil  omen, — he 

That,  wanting  peace,  breathes  discord  and  dismay. 

Quick,  quick,  and  change  his  egg,  my  Italy, 
Before  there  hatch  from  it  some  bird  of  prey, — 


320  MODERN     ITALIAN    POETS. 

Before  some  beak  of  rapine  be  set  free, 

That,  after  the  mountains,  shall  infest  the  sea; 

Before  some  ravenous  eaglet  shah1  be  sent 

After  our  isles  to  gorge  the  continent. 

I  'd  rather  a  goose  even  from  yon  egg  should  come, — 

If  only  of  the  breed  that  once  saved  Rome ! 

The  flight  of  the  Grand  Duke  from  Florence  in 
1859,  and  his  conciliatory  address  to  his  late  sub 
jects  after  Villafranca,  in  which  by  fair  promises 
he  hoped  to  win  them  back  to  their  allegiance ;  the 
union  of  Tuscany  with  the  kingdom  of  Italy  ;  the 
removal  of  the  Austrian  flags  from  Milan ;  Gari 
baldi's  crusade  in  Sicily ;  the  movement  upon  Rome 
in  1862 ;  Aspromonte, —  all  these  events,  with  the 
shifting  phases  of  public  feeling  throughout  that 
time,  the  alternate  hopes  and  fears  of  the  Italian 
nation,  are  celebrated  in  the  later  Stornelli  of  Ball7 
Ongaro.  Venice  has  long  since  fallen  to  Italy;  and 
Rome  has  become  the  capital  of  the  nation.  But 
the  unification  was  not  accomplished  till  Gari 
baldi,  who  had  done  so  much  for  Italy,  had  been 
wounded  by  her  king's  troops  in  his  impatient 
attempt  to  expel  the  French  at  Aspromonte. 

TO    MY    SONGS. 

Fly,  0  my  songs,  to  Varignano,  fly! 

Like  some  lost  flock  of  swallows  homeward  flying, 
And  hail  me  Rome's  Dictator,  who  there  doth  he 

Broken  with  wounds,  but  conquered  not,  nor  dying ; 
Bid  him  think  on  the  April  that  is  nigh, 

Month  of  the  flowers  and  ventures  fear-defying. 


FRANCESCO    DALL,'    ONGARO.  321 

Or  if  it  is  not  nigh,  it  soon  shall  come, 

As  shall  the  swallow  to  his  last  year's  home, 

As  on  its  naked  stem  the  rose  shall  burn, 

As  to  the  empty  sky  the  stars  return, 

As  hope  comes  back  to  hearts  crushed  by  regret;  — 

Nay,  say  not  this  to  his  heart  ne'er  crushed  yet! 

Let  us  conclude  these  notices  with  one  of  the  Stor- 
nelli  which  is  non-political,  but  which  I  think  we 
wont  find  the  less  agreeable  for  that  reason.  I  like 
it  because  it  says  a  pretty  thing  or  two  very  daintily, 
and  is  interfused  with  a  certain  arch  and  playful 
spirit  which  is  not  so  common  but  we  ought  to  be 
glad  to  recognize  it. 

If  you  are  good  as  you  are  fair,  indeed, 
Keep  to  yourself  those  sweet  eyes,  I  implore! 

A  little  flame  burns  under  either  lid 

That  might  in  old  age  kindle  youth  once  more: 

I  am  like  a  hermit  in  his  cavern  hid, 
But  can  I  look  on  you  and  not  adore1? 

Fair,  if  you  do  not  mean  my  misery 
Those  lovely  eyes  lift  upward  to  the  sky; 
I  shall  believe  you  some  saint  shrined  above, 
And  may  adore  you  if  I  may  not  love; 
I  shall  believe  you  some  bright  soul  in  bliss, 
And  may  look  on  you  and  not  look  amiss. 

I  have  already  noted  the  more  obvious  merits  of 
the  Stornelli,  and  I  need  not  greatly  insist  upon 
them.  Their  defects  are  equally  plain;  one  sees 
that  their  simplicity  all  but  ceases  to  be  a  virtue  at 
times,  and  that  at  times  their  feeling  is  too  much 
14* 


322  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

intellectualized.  Yet  for  all  this  we  must  recognize 
their  excellence,  and  the  skill  as  well  as  the  truth  of 
the  poet.  It  is  very  notable  with  what  directness 
he  expresses  his  thought,  and  with  what  discretion 
he  leaves  it  when  expressed.  The  form  is  always 
most  graceful,  and  the  success  with  which  dra 
matic,  picturesque,  and  didactic  qualities  are  blent, 
for  a  sole  effect,  in  the  brief  compass  of  the  poems, 
is  not  too  highly  praised  in  the  epithet  of  novelty. 
Nothing  is  lost  for  the  sake  of  attitude;  the  actor 
is  absent  from  the  most  dramatic  touches,  the 
painter  is  not  visible  in  lines  which  are  each  a  pict 
ure,  the  teacher  does  not  appear  for  the  purpose 
of  enforcing  the  moral.  It  is  not  the  grandest 
poetry,  but  is  true  feeling,  admirable  art. 


GIOVANNI  PEATI 


THE  Italian  poet  who  most  resembles  in  theme 
and  treatment  the  German  romanticists  of  the 
second  period  was  nearest  them  geographically  in 
his  origin.  Giovanni  Prati  was  born  at  Dasindo, 
a  mountain  village  of  the  Trentino,  and  his  boy 
hood  was  passed  amidst  the  wild  scenes  of  that 
picturesque  region,  whose  dark  valleys  and  snowy, 
cloud-capped  heights,  foaming  torrents  and  rolling 
mists,  lend  their  gloom  and  splendor  to  so  much 
of  his  verse.  His  family  was  poor,  but  it  was  noble, 
and  he  received,  through  whatever  sacrifice  of  those 
who  remained  at  home,  the  education  of  a  gentle 
man,  as  the  Italians  understand  it.  He  went  to  school 
in  Trent,  and  won  some  early  laurels  by  his  Latin 
poems,  which  the  good  priests  who  kept  the  collegia 
gathered  and  piously  preserved  in  an  album  for 
the  admiration  and  emulation  of  future  scholars ; 
when  in  due  time  he  matriculated  at  the  University 
of  Padua  as  student  of  law,  he  again  shone  as  a 
poet,  and  there  he  wrote  his  "  Edmenegarda,"  a 
poem  that  gave  him  instant  popularity  throughout 
Italy.  When  he  quitted  the  university  he  visited 
different  parts  of  the  country,  "  having  the  need'7  of 


324  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

frequent  change  of  scenes  and  impressions;  but 
everywhere  he  poured  out  songs,  ballads,  and  ro 
mances,  and  was  already  a  voluminous  poet  in  1840, 
when,  in  his  thirtieth  year,  he  began  to  abandon  his 
Teutonic  phantoms  and  hectic  maidens,  and  to 
make  Italy  in  various  disguises  the  heroine  of  his 
song.  Whether  Austria  penetrated  these  disguises 
or  not,  he  was  a  little  later  ordered  to  leave  Milan. 
He  took  refuge  in  Piedmont,  whose  brave  king,  in 
spite  of  diplomatic  remonstrances  from  his  neigh 
bors,  made  Prati  his  poeta  cesareo,  or  poet  laureate. 
This  was  in  1843 ;  and  five  years  later  he  took  an 
active  part  in  inciting  with  his  verse  the  patriotic 
revolts  which  broke  out  all  over  Italy.  But  he  was 
supposed  by  virtue  of  his  office  to  be  monarchical  in 
his  sympathies,  and  when  he  ventured  to  Florence, 
the  novelist  Guerrezzi,  who  was  at  the  head  of  the 
revolutionary  government  there,  sent  the  poet  back 
across  the  border  in  charge  of  a  carbineer.  In  1851 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  write  a  poem  in  censure 
of  Orsini's  attempt  upon  the  life  of  Napoleon  III., 
and  to  take  money  for  it  from  the  gratified  emperor. 
He  seems  to  have  remained  up  to  his  death  in  the 
enjoyment  of  his  office  at  Turin.  His  latest  poem, 
if  one  may  venture  to  speak  of  any  as  the  last  among 
poems  poured  out  with  such  bewildering  rapidity, 
was  "Satan  and  the  Graces,"  which  De  Sanctis 
made  himself  very  merry  over. 


GIOVANNI    PRATI.  325 

II 

THE  Edmenegarda,  which  first  won  him  repute, 
was  perhaps  not  more  youthful,  but  it  was  a  sub 
ject  that  appealed  peculiarly  to  the  heart  of  youth, 
and  was  sufficiently  mawkish.  All  the  characters 
of  the  Edmenegarda  were  living  at  the  time  of  its 
publication,  and  were  instantly  recognized;  yet 
there  seems  to  have  been  no  complaint  against  the 
poet  on  their  part,  nor  any  reproach  on  the  part  of 
criticism.  Indeed,  at  least  one  of  the  characters 
was  flattered  by  the  celebrity  given  him.  "So 
great,"  says  Prati's  biographer,  in  the  Galleria 
Nazionale,  "  was  the  enthusiasm  awakened  every 
where,  and  in  every  heart,  by  the  Edmenegarda, 
that  the  young  man  portrayed  in  it,  under  the 
name  of  Leoni,  imagining  himself  to  have  become, 
through  Prati's  merit,  an  eminently  poetical  subject, 
presented  himself  to  the  poet  in  the  Gaffe  Pedroc- 
chi  at  Padua,  and  returned  him  his  warmest  thanks. 
Prati  also  made  the  acquaintance,  at  the  Gaffe  Na- 
zionale  in  Turin,  of  his  Edmenegarda,  but  after 
the  wrinkles  had  seamed  the  visage  of  his  ideal, 
and  canceled  perhaps  from  her  soul  the  memory 
of  anguish  suffered."  If  we  are  to  believe  this 
writer,  the  story  of  a  wife's  betrayal,  abandon 
ment  by  her  lover,  and  repudiation  by  her  hus 
band,  produced  effects  upon  the  Italian  public  as 
various  as  profound.  "  In  this  pathetic  story  of 
an  unhappy  love  was  found  so  much  truth  of  pas 
sion,  so  much  naturalness  of  sentiment,  and  so 
much  power,  that  every  sad  heart  was  filled  with 


326  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

love  for  the  young  poet,  so  compassionate  toward 
innocent  misfortune,  so  sympathetic  in  form,  in 
thought,  in  sentiment.  From  that  moment  Prati 
became  the  poet  of  suffering  youth ;  in  every  cor 
ner  of  Italy  the  tender  verses  of  the  Edmenegarda 
were  read  with  love,  and  sometimes  frenzied  pas 
sion;  the  political  prisoners  of  Rome,  of  Naples, 
and  Palermo  found  them  a  grateful  solace  amid 
the  privations  and  heavy  tedium  of  incarceration  • 
many  sundered  lovers  were  recon joined  indissolu- 
bly  in  the  kiss  of  peace ;  more  than  one  desperate 
girl  was  restrained  from  the  folly  of  suicide  j  and 
even  the  students  in  the  ecclesiastical  seminaries 
at  Milan  revolted,  as  it  were,  against  their  rector, 
and  petitioned  the  Archbishop  of  G-aisruk  that  they 
might  be  permitted  to  read  the  fantastic  romance. " 
What  he  was  at  first,  Prati  seems  always  to 
have  remained  in  character  and  in  ideals.  "  "Would 
you  know  the  poet  in  ordinary  of  the  king  of  Sar 
dinia  ? "  says  Marc-Monnier.  "  Go  up  the  great 
street  of  the  Po,  under  the  arcades  to  the  left, 
around  the  Gaffe  Florio,  which  is  the  center  of 
Turin.  If  you  meet  a  great  youngster  of  forty 
years,  with  brown  hair,  wandering  eyes,  long  visage, 
lengthened  by  the  imperial,  prominent  nose,  dimin 
ished  by  the  mustache, — good  head,  in  fine,  and 
proclaiming  the  artist  at  first  glance,  say  to  your 
self  that  this  is  he,  give  him  your  hand,  and  he  will 
give  you  his.  He  is  the  openest  of  Italians,  and 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  It  is  here  that  he 
lives,  under  the  arcades.  Do  not  look  for  his  dwell 
ing  ;  he  does  not  dwell,  he  promenades.  Life  for 


GIOVANNI  PR  ATI. 


GIOVANNI    PRATI.  327 

him  is  not  a  combat  nor  a  journey ;  it  is  a  saunter 
(fldnerie),  cigar  in  mouth,  eyes  to  the  wind  j  a  com 
rade  whom  he  meets,  and  passes  a  pleasant  word 
with  j  a  group  of  men  who  talk  politics,  and  leave 
you  to  read  the  newspapers  j  puis  ca  et  Id,  par  Jias- 
ard,  une  bonne  fortune ;  a  woman  or  an  artist  who 
understands  you,  and  who  listens  while  you  talk  of 
art  or  repeat  your  verses.  Prati  lives  so  the  whole 
year  round.  From  time  to  time  he  disappears  for 
a  week  or  two.  Where  is  he?  Nobody  knows. 
You  grow  uneasy ;  you  ask  his  address :  he  has 
none.  Some  say  he  is  ill ;  others,  he  is  dead  ;  but 
some  fine  morning,  cheerful  as  ever,  he  re-appears 
under  the  arcades.  He  has  come  from  the  bottom 
of  a  wood  or  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  he  has 
made  two  thousand  verses.  .  .  .  He  is  hardly 
forty-one  years  old,  and  he  has  already  written  a 
million  lines.  I  have  read  seven  volumes  of  his, 
and  I  have  not  read  all." 

I  have  not  myself  had  the  patience  here  boasted 
by  M.  Marc-Monnier;  but  three  or  four  volumes  of 
Prati's  have  sufficed  to  teach  me  the  spirit  and  pur 
pose  of  his  poetry.  Born  in  1815,  and  breathing 
his  first  inspirations  from  that  sense  of  romance 
blowing  into  Italy  with  every  northern  gale, —  a 
son  of  the  Italian  Tyrol,  the  region  where  the  fire 
meets  the  snow, —  he  has  some  excuse,  if  not  a  per 
fect  reason,  for  being  half-German  in  his  feeling. 
It  is  natural  that  Prati  should  love  the  ballad  form 
above  all,  and  should  pour  into  its  easy  verse  the 
wild  legends  heard  during  a  boyhood  passed  among 
mountains  and  mountaineers.  As  I  read  his  poetic 


328  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

tales,  with  a  little  heart-break,  more  or  less  fic 
titious,  in  each,  I  seem  to  have  found  again  the 
sweet  German  songs  that  fluttered  away  out  of 
my  memory  long  ago.  There  is  a  tender  light  on 
the  pages  j  a  mistier  passion  than  that  of  the  south 
breathes  through  the  dejected  lines  $  and  in  the  bal 
lads  we  see  all  our  old  acquaintance  once  more, — 
the  dying  girls,  the  galloping  horsemen,  the  moon 
beams,  the^jPamiliar,  inconsequent  phantoms, — 
scarcely  changed  in  the  least,  and  only  betraying 
now  and  then  that  they  have  been  at  times  in  the 
bad  company  of  Lara,  and  Medora,  and  other  dis 
sipated  and  vulgar  people.  The  following  poem 
will  give  some  proof  of  all  this,  and  will  not  unfairly 
witness  of  the  quality  of  Prati  in  most  of  the  poetry 
he  has  written : 

THE  MIDNIGHT  RIDE. 


Ruello,  Ruello,  devour  the  way! 

On  your  breath  bear  us  with  you,  0  winds,  as  ye 

swell! 
My  darling,  she  lies  near  her  death  to-day, — 

Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  Ruel! 

That  my  spurs  have  torn  open  thy  flanks,  alas! 

With  thy  long,  sad  neighing,  thou  need'st  not  tell ; 
"We  have  many  a  league  yet  of  desert  to  pass, — 

Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  Euel! 

Hear'st  that  mocking  laugh  overhead  in  space  ? 

Hear'st  the  shriek  of  the  storm,  as  it  drives,  swift 

and  fell? 
A  scent  as  of  graves  is  blown  into  my  face, — 

Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  Ruel! 


GIOVANNI    PRATI.  329 

Ah,  God!  and  if  that  be  the  sound  I  hear 
Of  the  mourner's  song  and  the  passing-bell ! 

0  heaven !    What  see  I  f    The  cross  and  the  bier  ?  — 
Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  Ruel  ! 

Thou  falt'rest,  Ruello  ?    Oh,  courage,  my  steed ! 

Wilt  fail  me,  0  traitor  I  trusted  so  well? 
The  tempest  roars  over  us, —  halt  not,  nor  heed !  — 

Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  Ruel ! 

Gallop,  Ruello,  oh,  faster  yet! 

Good  God,  that  flash!     0  God!  I  am  chill,— 
Something  hangs  on  my  eyelids  heavy  as  death, — 

Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  Ruel ! 


n. 

Smitten  with  the  lightning  stroke, 
From  his  seat  the  cavalier 

Fell,  and  forth  the  charger  broke, 
Rider-free  and  mad  with  fear, — 

Through  the  tempest  and  the  night, 

Like  a  winged  thing  in  flight. 

In  the  wind  his  mane  blown  back, 
With  a  frantic  plunge  and  neigh, — 

In  the  shadow  a  shadow  black, 
Ever  wilder  he  flies  away, — 

Through  the  tempest  and  the  night, 

Like  a  winged  thing  in  flight. 

From  his  throbbing  flanks  arise 
Smokes  of  fever  and  of  sweat, — 

Over  him  the  pebble  flies 
From  his  swift  feet  swifter  yet, — 

Through  the  tempest  and  the  night, 

Like  a  winged  thing  in  flight. 


330  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

From  the  cliff  unto  the  wood, 
Twenty  leagues  he  passed  in  all; 

Soaked  with  bloody  foam  and  blood, 
Blind  he  struck  against  the  wall: 

Death  is  in  the  seat ;  no  more 

Stirs  the  steed  that  flew  before. 


in. 

And  the  while,  upon  the  colorless, 

Death-white  visage  of  the  dying 
Maiden,  still  and  faint  and  fair, 

Rosy  lights  arise  and  wane ; 
And  her  weakness  lifting  tremulous 

From  the  couch  where  she  was  lying 
Her  long,  beautiful,  loose  hair 

Strives  she  to  adorn  in  vain. 

"Mother,  what  it  is  has  startled  me 

From  my  sleep  I  cannot  tell  thee: 
Only,  rise  and  deck  me  well 

In  my  fairest  robes  again. 
For,  last  night,  in  the  thick  silences, — 

I  know  not  how  it  befell  me, — 
But  the  gallop  of  Euel, 

More  than  once  I  heard  it  plain. 

"  Look,  O  mother,  through  yon  shadowy 

Trees,  beyond  their  gloomy  cover: 
Canst  thou  not  an  atom  see 

Toward  us  from  the  distance  start? 
Seest  thou  not  the  dust  rise  cloudily, 

And  above  the  highway  hover? 
Come  at  last !     'T  is  he !  't  is  he  ! 

Mother,  something  breaks  my  heart." 


GIOVANNI    PRATI.  331 

Ah,  poor  child!  she  raises  wearily 

Her  dim  eyes,  and,  turning  slowly, 
Seeks  the  sun,  and  leaves  this  strife 

With  a  loved  name  in  her  breath. 
Ah,  poor  child !  in  vain  she  waited  him. 

In  the  grave  they  made  her  lowly 
Bridal  bed.    And  thou,  0  life ! 

Hast  no  hopes  that  know  not  death? 

Among  Prati's  patriotic  poems,  I  have  read  one 
which  seems  to  me  rather  vivid,  and  which  because 
it  reflects  yet  another  phase  of  that  great  Italian 
resurrection,  as  well  as  represents  Prati  in  one  of 
his  best  moods,  I  will  give  here : 


THE  SPY. 

With  ears  intent,  with  eyes  abased, 
Like  a  shadow  still  my  steps  thou  hast  chased  j 
If  I  whisper  aught  to  my  friend,  I  feel 
Thee  follow  quickly  upon  my  heel. 
Poor  wretch,  thou  fill'st  me  with  loathing ;   fly! 
Thou  art  a  spy! 

When  thou  eatest  the  bread  that  thou  dost  win 
With  the  filthy  wages  of  thy  sin, 
The  hideous  face  of  treason  anear 
Dost  thou  not  see?   dost  thou  not  fear1? 
Poor  wretch,  thou  fill'st  me  with  loathing;   fly! 
Thou  art  a  spy! 

The  thief  may  sometimes  my  pity  claim; 
Sometimes  the  harlot  for  her  shame; 


332  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Even  the  murderer  in  his  chains 
A  hidden  fear  from  me  constrains; 
But  thou  only  fill'st  me  with  loathing;   fly! 
Thou  art  a  spy! 

Fly,  poor  villain;    draw  thy  hat  down, 
Close  be  thy  mantle  about  thee  thrown; 
And  if  ever  my  words  weigh  on  thy  heart, 
Betake  thyself  to  some  church  apart; 
There,  "Lord,  have  mercy!"  weep  and  cry: 
"  I  am  a  spy ! " 

Forgiveness  for  thy  great  sin  alone 
Thou  may'st  hope  to  find  before  his  throne. 
Dismayed  by  thy  snares  that  all  abhor, 
Brothers  on  earth  thou  hast  no  more ; 
Poor  wretch,  thou  fill'st  me  with  loathing;   fly! 
Thou  art  a  spy! 


ALEARDO  ALEARDI 


IN  the  first  quarter  of  the  century  was  born  a 
poet,  in  the  village  of  San  Giorgio,  near  Verona, 
of  parents  who  endowed  their  son  with  the  mag 
nificent  name  of  Aleardo  Aleardi.  His  father  was 
one  of  those  small  proprietors  numerous  in  the 
Veneto,  and,  though  not  indigent,  was  by  no  means 
a  rich  man.  He  lived  on  his  farm,  and  loved  it, 
and  tried  to  improve  the  condition  of  his  tenants. 
Aleardo's  childhood  was  spent  in  the  country, —  a 
happy  fortune  for  a  boy  anywhere,  the  happiest 
fortune  if  that  country  be  Italy,  and  its  scenes  the 
grand  and  beautiful  scenes  of  the  valley  of  the 
Adige.  Here  he  learned  to  love  nature  with  the 
passion  that  declares  itself  everywhere  in  his  verse ; 
and  hence  he  was  in  due  time  taken  and  placed  at 
school  in  the  Collegio*  of  Santf  Anastasia,  in  Ve 
rona,  according  to  the  Italian  system,  now  fallen  into 
disuse,  of  fitting  a  boy  for  the  world  by  giving  him 
the  training  of  a  cloister.  It  is  not  greatly  to 
Aleardi's  discredit  that  he  seemed  to  learn  nothing 

*  Not  a  college  in  the  American  sense,  but  a  private  school 
of  a  high  grade, 


334  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

there,  and  that  he  drove  his  reverend  preceptors  to 
the  desperate  course  of  advising  his  removal.  They 
told  his  father  he  would  make  a  good  farmer,  but 
a  scholar,  never.  They  nicknamed  him  the  mole, 
for  his  dullness ;  but,  in  the  mean  time,  he  was 
making  underground  progress  of  his  own,  and  he 
came  to  the  surface  one  day,  a  mole  no  longer,  to 
everybody's  amazement,  but  a  thing  of  such  flight 
and  song  as  they  had  never  seen  before, — in  fine,  a 
poet.  He  was  rather  a  scapegrace,  after  he  ceased 
to  be  a  mole,  at  school ;  but  when  he  went  to  the 
University  at  Padua,  he  became  conspicuous  among 
the  idle,  dissolute  students  of  that  day  for  tem 
perate  life  and  severe  study.  There  he  studied  law, 
and  learned  patriotism;  political  poetry  and  inter 
views  with  the  police  were  the  consequence,  but  no 
serious  trouble. 

One  of  the  offensive  poems,  which  he  says  he  and 
his  friends  had  the  audacity  to  call  an  ode,  was 

this: 

Sing  we  our  country.     'T  is  a  desolate 
And  frozen  cemetery; 
Over  its  portals  undulates 
A  banner  black  and  yellow; 
And  within  it  throng  the  myriad 
Phantoms  of  slaves  and  kings: 

A  man  on  a  worn-out,  tottering 

Throne  watches  o'er  the  tombs: 
The  pallid  lord  of  consciences, 
The  despot  of  ideas. 
Tricoronate  he  vaunts  himself 
And  without  crown  is  he. 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  335 

In  this  poem  the  yellow  and  black  flag  is,  of 
course,  the  Austrian,  and  the  enthroned  man  is  the 
pope,  of  whose  temporal  power  our  poet  was  always 
the  enemy.  "  The  Austrian  police/7  says  Aleardi's 
biographer,  "like  an  affectionate  mother,  anxious 
about  everything,  came  into  possession  of  these 
verses;  ^and  the  author  was  admonished,  in  the 
way  of  maternal  counsel,  not  to  touch  such  topics, 
if  he  would  not  lose  the  favor  of  the  police,  and  be 
looked  on  as  a  prodigal  son."  He  had  already  been 
admonished  for  carrying  a  cane  on  the  top  of  which 
was  an  old  Italian  pound,  or  lira,  with  the  inscrip 
tion,  Kingdom  of  Italy, — for  it  was  an  offense  to 
have  such  words  about  one  in  any  way,  so  trivial 
and  petty  was  the  cruel  government  that  once 
reigned  over  the  Italians. 

In  due  time  he  took  that  garland  of  paper  laurel 
and  gilt  pasteboard  with  which  the  graduates  of 
Padua  are  sublimely  crowned,  and  returned  to  Ve 
rona,  where  he  entered  the  office  of  an  advocate  to 
learn  the  practical  workings  of  the  law.  These  dis 
gusted  him,  naturally  enough ;  and  it  was  doubtless 
far  less  to  the  hurt  of  his  feelings  than  of  his  fort 
une  that  the  government  always  refused  him  the 
post  of  advocate. 

In  this  time  he  wrote  his  first  long  poem,  Ar- 
naldo,  which  was  published  at  Milan  in  1842,  and 
which  won  him  immediate  applause.  It  was  fol 
lowed  by  the  tragedy  of  Bragadino;  and  in  the 
year  1845  he  wrote  Le  Prime  Storie,  which  he 
suffered  to  lie  unpublished  for  twelve  years.  It 


336  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

appeared  in  Verona  in  1857,  a  year  after  the  publi 
cation  of  his  Monte  Circellio,  written  in  1846. 

The  revolution  of  1848  took  place $  the  Austrians 
retired  from  the  dominion  of  Venice,  and  a  provis 
ional  republican  government,  under  the  presidency 
of  Daniele  Manin,  was  established,  and  Aleardi  was 
sent  as  one  of  its  plenipotentiaries  to  Paris,  where 
he  learnt  how  many  fine  speeches  the  friends  of 
a  struggling  nation  can  make  when  they  do  not 
mean  to  help  it.  The  young  Venetian  republic 
fell.  Aleardi  left  Paris,  and,  after  assisting  at  the 
ceremony  of  being  bombarded  in  Bologna,  retired 
to  Genoa.  He  later  returned  to  Verona,  and  there 
passed  several  years  of  tranquil  study.  In  1852, 
for  the  part  he  had  taken  in  the  revolution,  he  was 
arrested  and  imprisoned  in  the  fortress  at  Man 
tua,  thus  fulfilling  the  destiny  of  an  Italian  poet  of 
those  times. 

All  the  circumstances  and  facts  of  this  arrest  and 
imprisonment  are  so  characteristic  of  the  Austrian 
method  of  governing  Italy,  that  I  do  not  think  it 
out  of  place  to  give  them  with  some  fullness.  In 
the  year  named,  the  Austrians  were  still  avenging 
themselves  upon  the  patriots  who  had  driven  them 
out  of  Venetia  in  1848,  and  their  courts  were  sit 
ting  in  Mantua  for  the  trial  of  political  prison 
ers,  many  of  whom  were  exiled,  sentenced  to  long 
imprisonment,  or  put  to  death.  Aleardi  was  first 
confined  in  the  military  prison  at  Verona,  but  was 
soon  removed  to  Mantua,  whither  several  of  his 
friends  had  already  been  sent.  All  the  other  pris 
ons  being  full,  he  was  thrust  into  a  place  which 


ALEARDO  ALEARDI. 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  337 

till  now  had  seemed  too  horrible  for  use.  It  was  a 
narrow  room,  dark,  and  reeking  with  the  dampness 
of  the  great  dead  lagoon  which  surrounds  Mantua. 
A  broken  window,  guarded  by  several  gratings,  let 
in  a  little  light  from  above  5  the  day  in  that  cell 
lasted  six  hours,  the  night  eighteen.  A  mattress 
on  the  floor,  and  a  can  of  water  for  drinking,  were 
the  furniture.  In  the  morning  they  brought  him 
two  pieces  of  hard,  black  bread ;  at  ten  o'clock  a 
thick  soup  of  rice  and  potatoes ;  and  nothing  else 
throughout  the  day.  In  this  dungeon  he  remained 
sixty  days,  without  books,  without  pen  or  paper, 
without  any  means  of  relieving  the  terrible  gloom 
and  solitude.  At  the  end  of  this  time,  he  was  sum 
moned  to  the  hall  above  to  see  his  sister,  whom  he 
tenderly  loved.  The  light  blinded  him  so  that  for 
a  while  he  could  not  perceive  her,  but  he  talked  to 
her  calmly  and  even  cheerfully,  that  she  might  not 
know  what  he  had  suffered.  Then  he  was  remanded 
to  his  cell,  where,  as  her  retreating  footsteps  ceased 
upon  his  ear,  he  cast  himself  upon  the  ground  in  a 
passion  of  despair.  Three  months  passed,  and  he 
had  never  seen  the  face  of  judge  or  accuser,  though 
once  the  prison  inspector,  with  threats  and  prom 
ises,  tried  to  entrap  him  into  a  confession.  One 
night  his  sleep  was  broken  by  a  continued  ham 
mering  ;  in  the  morning  half  a  score  of  his  friends 
were  hanged  upon  the  gallows  which  had  been 
built  outside  his  cell. 

By  this  time  his  punishment  had  been  so  far  mit 
igated  that  he  had  been  allowed  a  German  grammar 

and  dictionary,  and  for  the  first  time  studied  that 
15 


338  MODERN   ITALIAN    POETS. 

language,  on  the  literature  of  which  he  afterward 
lectured  in  Florence.  He  had,  like  most  of  the 
young  Venetians  of  his  day,  hated  the  language, 
together  with  those  who  spoke  it,  until  then. 

At  last,  one  morning  at  dawn,  a  few  days  after 
the  execution  of  his  friends,  Aleardi  and  others 
were  thrust  into  carriages  and  driven  to  the  castle. 
There  the  roll  of  the  prisoners  was  called ;  to  sev 
eral  names  none  answered,  for  those  who  had  borne 
them  were  dead.  Were  the  survivors  now  to  be  shot, 
or  sentenced  to  some  prison  in  Bohemia  or  Hun 
gary  ?  They  grimly  jested  among  themselves  as  to 
their  fate.  They  were  marched  out  into  the  piazza, 
under  the  heavy  rain,  and  there  these  men  who 
had  not  only  not  been  tried  for  any  crime,  but  had 
not  even  been  accused  of  any,  received  the  grace  of 
the  imperial  pardon. 

Aleardi  returned  to  Yerona  and  to  his  books, 
publishing  another  poem  in  1856,  called  Le  Citta 
Italiane  Marinare  e  Commercianti.  His  next  pub 
lication  was,  in  1857,  Raf  aello  e  la  Fornarina ;  then 
followed  Un'  Ora  della  mia  Giovinezza,  Le  Tre 
Fiume,  and  Le  Tre  Fanciulle,  in  1858. 

The  war  of  1859  broke  out  between  Austria  and 
France  and  Italy.  Aleardi  spent  the  brief  period 
of  the  campaign  in  a  military  prison  at  Verona, 
where  his  sympathies  were  given  an  ounce  of  pre 
vention.  He  had  committed  no  offense,  but  at 
midnight  the  police  appeared,  examined  his  papers, 
found  nothing,  and  bade  him  rise  and  go  to  prison. 
After  the  peace  of  Villafranca  he  was  liberated, 
and  left  the  Austrian  states,  retiring  first  to  Bres- 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  339 

cia,  and  then  to  Florence.  His  publications  since 
1859  have  been  a  Canto  Politico  and  I  Sette  Sol- 
dati.  He  was  condemned  for  his  voluntary  exile, 
by  the  Austrian  courts,  and  I  remember  reading 
in  the  newspapers  the  official  invitation  given  him 
to  come  back  to  Verona  and  be  punished.  But, 
oddly  enough,  he  declined  to  do  so. 


ii 


THE  first  considerable  work  of  Aleardi  was  Le 
Prime  Storie  ( Primal  Histories),  in  which  he  traces 
the  course  of  the  human  race  through  .the  Scriptural 
story  of  its  creation,  its  fall,  and  its  destruction  by 
the  deluge,  through  the  Greek  and  Latin  days, 
through  the  darkness  and  glory  of  the  feudal 
times,  down  to  our  own, — following  it  from  Eden 
to  Babylon  and  Tyre,  from  Tyre  and  Babylon  to 
Athens  and  Eome,  from  Florence  and  Genoa  to 
the  shores  of  the  New  World,  full  of  shadowy  tra 
dition  and  the  promise  of  a  peaceful  and  happy 
future. 

He  takes  this  fruitful  theme,  because  he  feels  it  to 
be  alive  with  eternal  interest,  and  rejects  the  well- 
worn  classic  fables,  because 

Under  the  bushes  of  the  odorous  mint 

The  Dryads  are  buried,  and  the  placid  Dian 

Guides  now  no  longer  through  the  nights  below 


340  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Th'  invulnerable  hinds  and  pearly  car, 

To  bless  the  Carian  shepherd's  dreams.    No  more 

The  valley  echoes  to  the  stolen  kisses, 

Or  to  the  twanging  bow,  or  to  the  bay 

Of  the  immortal  hounds,  or  to  the  Fauns' 

Plebeian  laughter.     From  the  golden  rim 

Of  shells,  dewy  with  pearl,  in  ocean's  depths 

The  snowy  loveliness  of  Galatea 

Has  fallen;   and  with  her,  their  endless  sleep 

In  coral  sepulchers  the  Nereids 

Forgotten  sleep  in  peace. 

The  poet  cannot  turn  to  his  theme,  however, 
without  a  sad  and  scornful  apostrophe  to  his  own 
land,  where  he  figures  himself  sitting  by  the  way, 
and  craving  of  the  frivolous,  heartless,  luxurious 
Italian  throngs  that  pass  the  charity  of  love  for 
Italy.  They  pass  him  by  unheeded,  and  he  cries : 

Hast  thou  seen 

In  the  deep  circle  of  the  valley  of  Siddim, 
Under  the  shining  skies  of  Palestine, 
The  sinister  glitter  of  the  Lake  of  Asphalt? 
Those  coasts,  strewn  thick  with  ashes  of  damnation, 
Forever  foe  to  every  living  thing, 
Where  rings  the  cry  of  the  lost  wandering  bird 
That,  on  the  shore  of  the  perfidious  sea, 
Athirsting  dies, —  that  watery  sepulcher 
Of  the  five  cities  of  iniquity, 

Where  even  the  tempest,  when  its  clouds  hang  low, 
Passes  in  silence,  and  the  lightning  dies,— 
If  thou  hast  seen  them,  bitterly  hath  been 
Thy  heart  wrung  with  the  misery  and  despair 
Of  that  dread  vision ! 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  341 

Yet  there  is  on  earth 
A  woe  more  desperate  and  miserable, — 
A  spectacle  wherein  the  wrath  of  God 
Avenges  him  more  terribly.     It  is 
A  vain,  weak  people  of  faint-heart  old  men, 
That,  for  three  hundred  years  of  dull  repose, 
Has  lain  perpetual  dreamer,  folded  in 
The  ragged  purple  of  its  ancestors, 
Stretching  its  limbs  wide  in  its  country's  sun, 
To  warm  them;  drinking  the  soft  airs  of  autumn 
Forgetful,  on  the  fields  where  its  forefathers 
Like  lions  fought !    From  overflowing  hands, 
Strew  we  with  hellebore  and  poppies  thick 
The  way. 

But  the  throngs  have  passed  by,  and  the  poet 
takes  up  his  theme.  Abel  sits  before  an  altar  upon 
the  borders  of  Eden,  and  looks  with  an  exile's  long 
ing  toward  the  Paradise  of  his  father,  where,  high 
above  all  the  other  trees,  he  beholds, 

Lording  it  proudly  in  the  garden's  midst, 
The  guilty  apple  with  its  fatal  beauty. 

He  weeps;  and  Cain,  furiously  returning  from  the 
unaccepted  labor  of  the  fields,  lifts  his  hand  against 
his  brother. 

It  was  at  sunset; 

The  air  was  severed  with  a  mother's  shriek, 
And  stretched  beside  the  o'erturned  altar's  foot 
Lay  the  first  corse. 

Ah !  that  primal  stain 

Of  blood  that  made  earth  hideous,  did  forebode 
To  all  the  nations  of  mankind  to  come 


342  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  cruel  household  stripes,  and  the  relentless 
Battles  of  civil  wars,  the  poisoned  cup, 
The  gleam  of  axes  lifted  up  to  strike 
The  prone  necks  on  the  block. 

The  fratricide 

Beheld  that  blood  amazed,  and  from  on  high 
He  heard  the  awful  voice  of  cursing  leap, 
And  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  felt 
God's  lightning  strike.   .   .   . 

....   And  there  from  out  the  heart 
All  stained  with  guiltiness  emerged  the  coward 
Religion  that  is  born  of  loveless  fears. 

And,  moved  and  shaken  like  a  conscious  thing, 
The  tree  of  sin  dilated  horribly 
Its  frondage  over  ah1  the  land  and  sea, 
And  with  its  poisonous  shadow  followed  far 
The  flight  of  Cain.   .   .   . 

....   And  he  who  first 
By  th'  arduous  solitudes  and  by  the  heights 
An^i  labyrinths  of  the  virgin  earth  conducted 
This  ever-wandering,  lost  Humanity 
Was  the  Accursed. 

Cain  passes  away,  and  his  children  fill  the  world, 
and  the  joy  of  guiltless  labor  brightens  the  poet's 
somber  verse. 

The  murmur  of  the  works  of  man  arose 
Up  from  the  plains j  the  caves  reverberated 
The  blows  of  restless  hammers  that  revealed, 
Deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  fruitful  hills, 
The  iron  and  the  faithless  gold,  with  rays 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  343 

Of  evil  charm.    And  all  the  cliffs  repeated 

The  beetle's  fall,  and  the  unceasing  leap 

Of  waters  on  the  paddles  of  the  wheel 

Volubly  busy;  and  with  heavy  strokes 

Upon  the  borders  of  the  inviolate  woods 

The  ax  was  heard  descending  on  the  trees, 

Upon  the  odorous  bark  of  mighty  pines. 

Over  the  imminent  upland's  utmost  brink 

The  blonde  wild -goat  stretched  forth  his  neck  to  meet 

The  unknown  sound,  and,  caught  with  sudden  fear, 

Down  the  steep  bounded,  and  the  arrow  cut 

Midway  the  flight  of  his  aerial  foot. 

So  all  the  wild  earth  was  tamed  to  the  hand  of 
man,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  stars  began  to  reveal 
itself  to  the  shepherds, 

Who,  in  the  leisure  of  the  argent  nights, 
Leading  their  flocks  upon  a  sea  of  meadows, 

turned  their  eyes  upon  the  heavenly  bodies,  and 
questioned  them  in  their  courses.  But  a  taint  of 
guilt  was  in  all  the  blood  of  Cain,  which  the  deluge 
alone  could  purge. 

And  beautiful  beyond  all  utterance 

Were  the  earth's  first-born  daughters.   Phantasms  these 

That  now  enamor  us  decrepit,  by 

The  light  of  that  prime  beauty !     And  the  glance 

Those  ardent  sinners  darted  had  beguiled 

God's  angels  even,  so  that  the  Lord's  command 

Was  weaker  than  the  bidding  of  their  eyes. 

And  there  were  seen,  descending  from  on  high, 

His  messengers,  and  in  the  tepid  eves 

Gathering  their  flight  about  the  secret  founts 


344  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Where  came  the  virgins  wandering  sole  to  stretch 

The  nude  pomp  of  their  perfect  loveliness. 

Caught  by  some  sudden  flash  of  light  afar, 

The  shepherd  looked,  and  deemed  that  he  beheld 

A  fallen  star,  and  knew  not  that  he  saw 

A  fallen  angel,  whose  distended  wings, 

All  tremulous  with  voluptuous  delight, 

Strove  vainly  to  lift  him  to  the  skies  again. 

The  earth  with  her  malign  embraces  blest 

The  heavenly-born,  and  they  straightway  forgot 

The  joys  of  Grod's  eternal  paradise 

For  the  brief  rapture  of  a  guilty  love. 

And  from  these  nuptials,  violent  and  strange, 

A  strange  and  violent  race  of  giants  rose; 

A  chain  of  sin  had  linked  the  earth  to  heaven; 

And  God  repented  him  of  his  own  work. 

The  destroying  rains  descended, 

And  the  ocean  rose, 
And  on  the  cities  and  the  villages 
The  terror  fell  apace.    There  was  a  strife 
Of  suppliants  at  the  altars;  blasphemy 
Launched  at  the  impotent  idols  and  the  kings; 
There  were  embraces  desperate  and  dear, 
And  news  of  suddenest  forgivenesses, 
And  a  relinquishment  of  all  sweet  things; 
And,  guided  onward  by  the  pallid  prophets, 
The  people  climbed,  with  lamentable  cries, 
In  pilgrimage  up  the  mountains. 

But  in  vain; 

For  swifter  than  they  climbed  the  ocean  rose, 
And  hid  the  palms,  and  buried  the  sepulchers 
Far  underneath  the  buried  pyramids; 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  345 

And  the  victorious  billow  swelled  and  beat 
At  eagles'  Alpine  nests,  extinguishing 
All  lingering  breath  of  life;  and  dreadfuller 
Than  the  yell  rising  from  the  battle-field 
Seemed  the  hush  of  every  human  sound. 

On  the  high  solitude  of  the  waters  naught 
Was  seen  but  here  and  there  unfrequently 
A  frail  raft,  heaped  with  languid  men  that  fought 
Weakly  with  one  another  for  the  grass 
Hanging  about  a  cliff  not  yet  submerged, 
And  here  and  there  a  drowned  man's  head,  and  here 
And  there  a  file  of  birds,  that  beat  the  air 
With  weary  wings. 

After  the  deluge,  the  race  of  Noah  repeoples  the 
empty  world,  and  the  history  of  mankind  begins 
anew  in  the  Orient.  Rome  is  built,  and  the  Chris 
tian  era  dawns,  and  Eome  falls  under  the  feet  of 
the  barbarians.  Then  the  enthusiasm  of  Chris 
tendom  sweeps  toward  the  East,  in  the  repeated 
Crusades ;  and  then,  "  after  long  years  of  twilight," 
Dante,  the  sun  of  Italian  civilization,  rises ;  and  at 
last  comes  the  dream  of  another  world,  unknown 
to  the  eyes  of  elder  times. 

But  between  that  and  our  shore  roared  diffuse 
Abysmal  seas  and  fabulous  hurricanes 
Which,  thought  on,  blanched  the  faces  of  the  bold; 
For  the  dread  secret  of  the  heavens  was  then 
The  Western  world.    Yet  on  the  Italian  coasts 
A  boy  grew  into  manhood,  in  whose  soul 
The  instinct  of  the  unknown  continent  burned. 
He  saw  in  his  prophetic  mind  depicted 
15* 


346  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

The  opposite  visage  of  the  earth,  and,  turning 
With  joyful  defiance  to  the  ocean,  sailed 
Forth  with  two  secret  pilots,  God  and  Genius. 
Last  of  the  prophets,  he  returned  in  chains 
And  glory. 

In  the  New  World  are  the  traces,  as  in  the  Old, 
of  a  restless  humanity,  wandering  from  coast  to 
coast,  growing,  building  cities,  and  utterly  vanish 
ing.  There  are  graves  and  ruins  everywhere ;  and 
the  poet's  thought  returns  from  these  scenes  of 
unstoried  desolation,  to  follow  again  the  course  of 
man  in  the  Old  World  annals.  But  here,  also,  he 
is  lost  in  the  confusion  of  man's  advance  and  re 
tirement,  and  he  muses : 

How  many  were  the  peoples?    Where  the  trace 

Of  their  lost  steps?    Where  the  funereal  fields 

In  which  they  sleep?     Go,  ask  the  clouds  of  heaven 

How  many  bolts  are  hidden  in  their  breasts, 

And  when  they  shall  be  launched ;   and  ask  the  path 

That  they  shall  keep  in  the  unfurrowed  air. 

The  peoples  passed.    Obscure  as  destiny, 

Forever  stirred  by  secret  hope,  forever 

Waiting  upon  the  promised  mysteries, 

Unknowing  God,  that  urged  them,  turning  still 

To  some  kind  star, — they  swept  o'er  the  sea-weed 

In  unknown  waters,  fearless  swam  the  course 

Of  nameless  rivers,  wrote  with  flying  feet 

The  mountain  pass  on  pathless  snows;   impatient 

Of  rest,  for  aye,  from  Babylon  to  Memphis, 

From  the  Acropolis  to  Rome,  they  hurried. 

And  with  them  passed  their  guardian  household  gods, 
And  faithful  wisdom  of  their  ancestors, 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  347 

And  the  seed  sown  in  mother  fields,  and  gathered, 

A  fruitful  harvest  in  their  happier  years. 

And,  'companying  the  order  of  their  steps 

Upon  the  way,  they  sung  the  choruses 

And  sacred  burdens  of  their  country's  songs, 

And,  sitting  down  by  hospitable  gates, 

They  told  the  histories  of  their  far-off  cities. 

And  sometimes  in  the  lonely  darknesses 

Upon  the  ambiguous  way  they  found  a  light, — 

The  deathless  lamp  of  some  great  truth,  that  Heaven 

Sent  in  compassionate  answer  to  their  prayers. 

But  not  to  all  was  given  it  to  endure 
That  ceaseless  pilgrimage,  and  not  on  all 
Did  the  heavens  smile  perennity  of  life 
Eevirginate  with  never-ceasing  change; 
And  when  it  had  completed  the  great  work 
Which  God  had  destined  for  its  race  to  do, 
Sometimes  a  weary  people  laid  them  down 
To  rest  them,  like  a  weary  man,  and  left 
Their  nude  bones  in  a  vale  of  expiation, 
And  passed  away  as  utterly  forever 
As  mist  that  snows  itself  into  the  sea. 

The  poet  views  this  growth  of  nations  from  youth 
to  decrepitude,  and,  coming  back  at  last  to  himself 
and  to  his  own  land  and  time,  breaks  forth  into  a 
lament  of  grave  and  touching  beauty : 

JMuse  of  an  aged  people,  in  the  eve 

T)f  fading  civilization,  I  was  born 
Of  kindred  that  have  greatly  expiated 
And  greatly  wept.    For  me  the  ambrosial  fingers 
Of  Graces  never  wove  the  laurel  crown, 
But  the  Fates  shadowed,  from  my  youngest  days, 


348  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

My  brow  with  passion-flowers,  and  I  have  lived 

Unknown  to  my  dear  land.     Oh,  fortunate 

My  sisters  that  in  the  heroic  dawn 

Of  races  sung!     To  them  did  destiny  give 

The  virgin  fire  and  chaste  ingenuousness 

Of  their  land's  speech ;  and,  reverenced,  their  hands 

Ean  over  potent  strings.     To  me,  the  hopes 

Turbid  with  hate;   to  me,  the  senile  rage; 

To  me,  the  painted  fancies  clothed  by  art 

Degenerate;   to  me,  the  desperate  wish, 

Not  in  my  soul  to  nurse  ungenerous  dreams, 

But  to  contend,  and  with  the  sword  of  song 

To  fight  my  battles  too.^^ 

~L/ 

Such  is  the  spirit,  such  is  the  manner,  of  the 
Prime  Storie  of  Aleardi.  The  merits  of  the  poem 
are  so  obvious,  that  it  seems  scarcely  profitable 
to  comment  upon  its  picturesqueness,  upon  the 
clearness  and  ease  of  its  style,  upon  the  art  which 
quickens  its  frequent  descriptions  of  nature  with  a 
human  interest.  The  defects  of  the  poem  are  quite 
as  plain,  and  I  have  again  to  acknowledge  the  crit 
ical  acuteness  of  Arnaud,  who  says  of  Aleardi :  "  In 
stead  of  synthetizing  his  conceptions,  and  giving 
relief  to  the  principal  lines,  the  poet  lingers  caress 
ingly  upon  the  particulars,  preferring  the  descrip 
tive  to  the  dramatic  element.  From  this  results 
poetry  of  beautiful  arabesques  and  exquisite  frag 
ments,  of  harmonious  verse  and  brilliant  diction." 

Nevertheless,  the  same  critic  confesses  that  the 
poetry  of  Aleardi  "  is  not  academically  common," 
and  pleases  by  the  originality  of  its  very  manner 
ism. 


ALEARDO  ALEARDI.  349 

III 

LIKE  Primal  Histories,  the  Hour  of  my  Youth  is 
a  contemplative  poem,  to  which  frequency  of  epi 
sode  gives  life  and  movement  j  but  its  scope  is  less 
grand,  and  the  poet,  recalling  his  early  days,  re 
members  chiefly  the  events  of  defeated  revolution 
which  give  such  heroic  sadness  and  splendor  to 
the  history  of  the  first  third  of  this  century.  The 
work  is  characterized  by  the  same  opulence  of 
diction,  and  the  same  luxury  of  epithet  and  im 
agery,  as  the  Primal  Histories,  but  it  somehow 
fails  to  win  our  interest  in  equal  degree :  perhaps 
because  the  patriot  now  begins  to  overshadow  the 
poet,  and  appeal  is  often  made  rather  to  the  sympa 
thies  than  the  imagination.  It  is  certain  that  art 
ceases  to  be  less,  and  country  more,  in  the  poetry 
of  Aleardi  from  this  time.  It  could  scarcely  be 
otherwise ;  and  had  it  been  otherwise,  the  poet 
would  have  become  despicable,  not  great,  in  the 
eyes  of  his  countrymen. 

The  Hour  of  my  Youth  opens  with  a  picture, 
where,  for  once  at  least,  all  the  brilliant  effects  are 
synthetized;  the  poet  has  ordered  here  the  whole 
Northern  world,  and  you  can  dream  of  nothing 
grand  or  beautiful  in  those  lonely  regions  which 
you  do  not  behold  in  it. 

Ere  yet  upon  the  unhappy  Arctic  lands, 

In  dying  autumn,  Erebus  descends 

With  the  night's  thousand  hours,  along  the  verge 

Of  the  horizon,  like  a  fugitive, 


350  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Through  the  long  days  wanders  the  weary  sun; 

And  when  at  last  under  the  wave  is  quenched 

The  last  gleam  of  its  golden  countenance, 

Interminable  twilight  land  and  sea 

Discolors,  and  the  north -wind  covers  deep 

All  things  in  snow,  as  in  their  sepulchers 

The  dead  are  buried.     In  the  distances 

The  shock  of  warring  Cyclades  of  ice 

Makes  music  as  of  wild  and  strange  lament; 

And  up  in  heaven  now  tardily  are  lit 

The  solitary  polar  star  and  seven 

Lamps  of  the  Bear.     And  now  the  warlike  race 

Of  swans  gather  their  hosts  upon  the  breast 

Of  some  far  gulf,  and,  bidding  their  farewell 

To  the  white  cliffs,  and  slender  junipers, 

And  sea-weed  bridal-beds,  intone  the  song 

Of  parting,  and  a  sad  metallic  clang 

Send  through  the  mists.    Upon  their  southward  way 

They  greet  the  beryl-tinted  icebergs;  greet 

Flamy  volcanoes,  and  the  seething  founts 

Of  Geysers,  and  the  melancholy  yellow 

Of  the  Icelandic  fields;  and,  wearying, 

Their  lily  wings  amid  the  boreal  lights, 

Journey  away  unto  the  joyous  shores 

Of  morning. 

In  a  strain  of  equal  nobility,  but  of  more 
personal  and  subjective  effect,  the  thought  is 
completed : 

So  likewise,  my  own  soul,  from  these  obscure 
Days  without  glory,  wings  its  flight  afar 
Backward,  and  journeys  to  the  years  of  youth 
And  morning.     Oh,  give  me  back  once  more, 
Oh,  give  me,  Lord,  one  hour  of  youth  again! 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  351 

For  in  that  time  I  was  serene  and  bold, 

And  uncontaminate,  and  enraptured  with 

The  universe.    I  did  not  know  the  pangs 

Of  the  proud  mind,  nor  the  sweet  miseries 

Of  love;  and  I  had  never  gathered  yet, 

After  those  fires  so  sweet  in  burning,  bitter 

Handfuls  of  ashes,  that,  with  tardy  tears 

Sprinkled,  at  last  have  nourished  into  bloom 

The  solitary  flower  of  penitence. 

The  baseness  of  the  many  was  unknown, 

And  civic  woes  had  not  yet  sown  with  salt 

Life's  narrow  field.    Ah!  then  the  infinite 

Voices  that  Nature  sends  her  worshipers 

From  land,  from  sea,  and  from  the  cloudy  depths 

Of  heaven  smote  the  echoing  soul  of  youth 

To  music.    And  at  the  first  morning  sigh 

Of  the  poor  wood-lark, —  at  the  measured  bell 

Of  homeward  flocks,  and  at  the  opaline  wings 

Of  dragon-flies  in  their  aerial  dances 

Above  the  gorgeous  carpets  of  the  marsh, — 

At  the  wind's  moan,  and  at  the  sudden  gleam 

Of  lamps  lighting  in  some  far  town  by  night, — 

And  at  the  dash  of  rain  that  April  shoots 

Through  the  air  odorous  with  the  smitten  dust, — 

My  spirits  rose,  and  glad  and  swift  my  thought 

Over  the  sea  of  being  sped  all-sails. 

There  is  a  description  of  a  battle,  in  the  Hour 
of  my  Youth,  which  I  cannot  help  quoting  before 
I  leave  the  poem.  The  battle  took  place  between 
the  Austrians  and  the  French  on  the  14th  of  Jan 
uary,  1797,  in  the  Chiusa,  a  narrow  valley  near 
Verona,  and  the  fiercest  part  of  the  fight  was  for 
the  possession  of  the  hill  of  Rivoli. 


352  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS, 

Clouds  of  smoke 

Floated  along  the  heights;   and,  with  her  wild, 
Incessant  echo,  Chiusa  still  repeated 
The  harmony  of  the  muskets.     Rival  hosts 
Contended  for  the  poverty  of  a  hill 
That  scarce  could  give  their  number  sepulcher; 
But  from  that  hill-crest  waved  the  glorious  locks 
Of  Victory.     And  round  its  bloody  spurs, 
Taken  and  lost  with  fierce  vicissitude, 
Serried  and  splendid,  swept  and  tempested 
Long-haired  dragoons,  together  with  the  might 
Of  the  Homeric  foot,  delirious 
With  fury;   and  the  horses  with  their  teeth 
Tore  one  another,  or,  tossing  wild  their  manes, 
Fled  with  their  helpless  riders  up  the  crags, 
By  strait  and  imminent  paths  of  rock,  till  down, 
Like  angels  thunder- smitten,  to  the  depths 
Of  that  abyss  the  riders  fell.    With  slain 
Was  heaped  the  dreadful  amphitheater; 
The  rocks  dropped  blood  j  and  if  with  gasping  breath 
Some  wounded   swimmer  beat  away  the  waves 
Weakly  between  him  and  the  other  shore, 
The  merciless  riflemen  from  the  cliffs  above, 
With  their  inexorable  aim,  beneath 
The  waters  sunk  him. 

The  Monte  Circellio  is  part  of  a  poem  in  four 
cantos,  dispersed,  it  is  said,  to  avoid  the  researches 
of  the  police,  in  which  the  poet  recounts  in  pictur 
esque  verse  the  glories  and  events  of  the  Italian 
land  and  history  through  which  he  passes.  A  slen 
der  but  potent  cord  of  common  feeling  unites  the 
episodes,  and  the  lament  for  the  present  fate  of 
Italy  rises  into  hope  for  her  future.  More  than 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  353 

half  of  the  poem  is  given  to  a  description  of  the 
geological  growth  of  the  earth,  in  which  the  imag 
ination  of  the  poet  has  unbridled  range,  and  in 
which  there  is  a  success  unknown  to  most  other 
attempts  to  poetize  the  facts  of  science.  The 
epochs  of  darkness  and  inundation,  of  the  mon 
strous  races  of  bats  and  lizards,  of  the  mammoths 
and  the  gigantic  vegetation,  pass,  and,  after  thou 
sands  of  years,  the  earth  is  tempered  and  purified 
to  the  use  of  man  by  fire ;  and  that 

Paradise  of  land  and  sea,  forever 
Stirred  by  great  hopes  and  by  volcanic  fires, 
CaUed  Italy, 

takes  shape:  its  burning  mountains  rise,  its  val 
leys  sink,  its  plains  extend,  its  streams  run.  But 
first  of  all,  the  hills  of  Rome  lifted  themselves  from 
the  waters,  that  day  when  the  spirit  of  God  dwell 
ing  upon  their  face 

Saw  a  fierce  group  of  seven  enkindled  hills, 

In  number  like  the  mystic  candles  lighted 

Within  his  future  temple.     Then  he  bent 

Upon  that  mystic  pleiades  of  flame 

His  luminous  regard,  and  spoke  to  it: 

"  Thou  art  to  be  my  Rome."     The  harmony 

Of  that  note  to  the  nebulous  heights  supreme, 

And  to  the  bounds  of  the  created  world, 

Rolled  like  the  voice  of  myriad  organ-stops, 

And  sank,  and  ceased.     The  heavenly  orbs  resumed 

Their  daily  dance  and  their  unending  journey  j 

A  mighty  rush  of  plumes  disturbed  the  rest 

Of  the  vast  silence;   here  and  there  like  stars 


354  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

About  the  sky,  flashed  the  immortal  eyes 
Of  choral  angels  following  after  him. 

The  opening  lines  of  Monte  Circellio  are  scarcely 
less  beautiful  than  the  first  part  of  Un'  Ora  della 
mia  Giovinezza,  but  I  must  content  myself  with 
only  one  other  extract  from  the  poem,  leaving 
the  rest  to  the  reader  of  the  original.  The  fact 
that  every  summer  the  Roman  hospitals  are  filled 
with  the  unhappy  peasants  who  descend  from  the 
hills  of  the  Abruzzi  to  snatch  its  harvests  from  the 
feverish  Campagna  will  help  us  to  understand  all 
the  meaning  of  the  following  passage,  though  noth 
ing  could  add  to  its  pathos,  unless,  perhaps,  the 
story  given  by  Aleardi  in  a  note  at  the  foot  of  his 
page :  "  How  do  you  live  here  ? "  asked  a  traveler 
of  one  of  the  peasants  who  reap  the  Campagna. 
The  Abruzzese  answered,  "  Signor,  we  die." 

What  time, 

In  hours  of  summer,  sad  with  so  much  light, 
The  sun  beats  ceaselessly  upon  the  fields, 
The  harvesters,  as  famine  urges  them, 
Draw  hither  in  thousands,  and  they  wear 
The  look  of  those  that  dolorously  go 
In  exile,  and  already  their  brown  eyes 
Are  heavy  with  the  poison  of  the  air. 
Here  never  note  of  amorous  bird  consoles 
Their  drooping  hearts;   here  never  the  gay  songs 
Of  their  Abruzzi  sound  to  gladden  these 
Pathetic  hands.    But  taciturn  they  toil, 
Reaping  the  harvest  for  their  unknown  lords; 
And  when  the  weary  labor  is  performed, 
Taciturn  they  retire;  and  not  till  then 


ALEARDO   ALEARDI.  355 

Their  bagpipes  crown  the  joys  of  the  return, 

Swelling  the  heart  with  their  familiar  strain. 

Alas!   not  all  return,  for  there  is  one 

That  dying  in  the  furrow  sits,  and  seeks 

With  his  last  look  some  faithful  kinsman  out, 

To  give  his  life's  wage,  that  he  carry  it 

Unto  his  trembling  mother,  with  the  last 

Words  of  her  son  that  comes  no  more.   And  dying, 

Deserted  and  alone,  far  off  he  hears 

His  comrades  going,  with  their  pipes  in  time 

Joyfully  measuring  their  homeward  steps. 

And  when  in  after  years  an  orphan  comes 

To  reap  the  harvest  here,  and  feels  his  blade 

Go  quivering  through  the  swaths  of  falling  grain, 

He  weeps  and  thinks:  haply  these  heavy  stalks 

Ripened  on  his  unburied  father's  bones. 


In  the  poem  called  The  Marine  and  Commer 
cial  Cities  of  Italy  (Le  Citta  Italiane  Marinare  e 
Commercianti),  Aleardi  recounts  the  glorious  rise, 
the  jealousies,  the  fratricidal  wars,  and  the  ignoble 
fall  of  Venice,  Florence,  Pisa,  and  Genoa,  in  strains 
of  grandeur  and  pathos ;  he  has  pride  in  the  wealth 
and  freedom  of  those  old  queens  of  traffic,  and  scorn 
and  lamentation  for  the  blind  selfishness  that  kept 
them  Venetian,  Florentine,  Pisan,  and  Genoese,  and 
never  suffered  them  to  be  Italian.  I  take  from  this 
poem  the  prophetic  vision  of  the  greatness  of  Ven 
ice,  which,  according  to  the  patriotic  tradition  of 
Sabellico,  Saint  Mark  beheld  five  hundred  years 
before  the  foundation  of  the  city,  when  one  day, 
journeying  toward  Aquileja,  his  ship  lost  her  course 
among  the  islands  of  the  lagoons.  The  saint  looked 


356  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

out  over  those  melancholy  swamps,  and  saw  the 
phantom  of  a  Byzantine  cathedral  rest  upon  the 
reeds,  while  a  multitudinous  voice  broke  the  silence 
with  the  Venetian  battle-cry,  "  Yiva  San  Marco  ! " 
The  lines  that  follow  illustrate  the  pride  and  splen 
dor  of  Venetian  story,  and  are  notable,  I  think,  for 
a  certain  lofty  grace  of  movement  and  opulence  of 
diction. 

There  thou  shalt  lie,  0  Saint !  *  but  compassed  round 

Thickly  by  shining  groves 

Of  pillars;   on  thy  regal  portico, 

Lifting  their  glittering  and  impatient  hooves, 

Corinth's  fierce  steeds  shall  be  bound ;  f 

And  at  thy  name,  the  hymn  of  future  wars, 

From  their  funereal  caves 

The  bandits  of  the  waves 

Shall  fly  in  exile  $  J  brought  from  bloody  fields 

Hard  won  and  lost  in  far-off  Palestine, 

The  glimmer  of  a  thousand  Arab  moons 

Shall  fill  thy  broad  lagoons ; 

And  on  the  false  Byzantine's  towers  shall  climb 

A  blind  old  man  sublime,  § 

Whom  victory  shall  behold 

Amidst  his  enemies  with  thy  sacred  flag, 

All  battle-rent,  unrolled. 

*  The  bones  of  St.  Mark  repose  in  his  church  at  Venice. 

t  The  famous  bronze  horses  of  St.  Mark's  still  shine  with  the 
gold  that  once  covered  them. 

\  Venice  early  swept  the  Adriatic  of  the  pirates  who  in 
fested  it. 

§  The  Doge  Enrico  Dandolo,  who,  though  blind  and  bowed 
with  eighty  years  of  war,  was  the  first  to  plant  the  banner  of 
Saint  Mark  on  the  walls  of  Constantinople  when  that  city 
was  taken  by  the  Venetians  and  Crusaders. 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  357 

The  late  poems  of  Aleardi  are  nearly  all  in  this 
lyrical  form,  in  which  the  thought  drops  and  rises 
with  ceaseless  change  of  music,  and  which  wins 
the  reader  of  many  empty  Italian  canzoni  by  the 
mere  delight  of  its  movement.  It  is  well  adapted 
to  the  subjects  for  which  Aleardi  has  used  it ;  it 
has  a  stateliness  and  strength  of  its  own,  and  its 
alternate  lapse  and  ascent  give  animation  to  the 
ever-blending  story  and  aspiration,  appeal  or  re 
flection.  In  this  measure  are  written  The  Three 
Rivers,  The  Three  Maidens,  and  The  Seven  Sol 
diers.  The  latter  is  a  poem  of  some  length,  in 
which  the  poet,  figuring  himself  upon  a  battle-field 
on  the  morrow  after  a  combat  between  Italians 
and  Austrians,  "wanders  among  the  wounded  in 
search  of  expiated  sins  and  of  unknown  heroism. 
He  pauses,77  continues  his  eloquent  biographer  in 
the  Galleria  Nazionale,  "  to  meditate  on  the  death 
of  the  Hungarian,  Polish,  Bohemian,  Croatian,  Aus 
trian,  and  Tyrolese  soldiers,  who  personify  the  na 
tionalities  oppressed  by  the  tyranny  of  the  house 
of  Hapsburg.  A  minister  of  God,  praying  beside 
the  corpses  of  two  friends,  Pole  and  Hungarian, 
hails  the  dawn  of  the  Magyar  resurrection.  Then 
rises  the  grand  figure  of  Sandor  Petofi,  l  the  patri 
otic  poet  of  Hungary/  whose  life  was  a  hymn,  and 
whose  miraculous  re-appearance  will,  according  to 
popular  superstition,  take  place  when  Hungary  is 
freed  from  her  chains.  The  poem  closes  with  a 
prophecy  concerning  the  destinies  of  Austria  and 
Italy ."  Like  all  the  poems  of  Aleardi,  it  abounds 
in  striking  lines;  but  the  interest,  instead  of  gath- 


358  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

ering  strongly  about  one  central  idea,  diffuses  itself 
.over  half -forgotten  particulars  of  revolutionary  his 
tory,  and  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  is  fatigued  and 
confused  with  the  variety  of  the  demand  upon  it. . 

For  this  reason,  The  Three  Rivers  and  The 
Three  Maidens  are  more  artistic  poems:  in  the 
former,  the  poet  seeks  vainly  a  promise  of  Italian 
greatness  and  unity  on  the  banks  of  Tiber  and  of 
Arno,  but  finds  it  by  the  Po,  where  the  war  of  1859 
is  beginning  ;  in  the  latter,  three  maidens  recount 
to  the  poet  stories  of  the  oppression  which  has 
imprisoned  the  father  of  one,  despoiled  another's 
house  through  the  tax-gatherer,  and  sent  the 
brother  of  the  third  to  languish,  the  soldier- slave 
of  his  tyrants,  in  a  land  where  "  the  wife  washes 
the  garments  of  her  husband,  yet  stained  with  Ital 
ian  blood.'7 

A  very  little  book  holds  all  the  poems  which 
Aleardi  has  written,  and  I  have  named  them  nearly 
all.  He  has  in  greater  degree  than  any  other  Ital 
ian  poet  of  this  age,  or  perhaps  of  any  age,  those 
qualities  whichEnglish  taste  of  this  time  demands — 
quickness  of  feeling  and  brilliancy  of  expression. 
He  lacks  simplicity  of  idea,  and  his  style  is  an  opal 
which  takes  all  lights  and  hues,  rather  than  the 
crystal  which  lets  the  daylight  colorlessly  through. 
He  is  distinguished  no  less  by  the  themes  he  selects 
than  by  the  expression  he  gives  them.  In  his  poe 
try  there  is  passion,  but  his  subjects  are  usually 
those  to  which  love  is  accessory  rather  than  essen 
tial  ;  and  he  cares  better  to  sing  of  universal  and 
national  destinies  as  they  concern  individuals,  than 


ALEARDO    ALEARDI.  359 

the  raptures  and  anguishes  of  youthful  individuals 
as  they  concern  mankind.  The  poet  may  be  wrong 
in  this,  but  he  achieves  an  undeniable  novelty 
in  it,  and  I  confess  that  I  read  him  willingly  on 
account  of  it. 

In  taking  leave  of  him,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  let 
him  have  the  last  word,  which  is  one  of  self-criticism, 
and;  I  think,  singularly  just.  He  refers  to  the  fact 
of  his  early  life,  that  his  father  forbade  him  to  be 
a  painter,  and  says :  "  Not  being  allowed  to  use  the 
pencil,  I  have  used  the  pen.  And  precisely  on  this 
account  my  pen  resembles  too  much  a  pencil; 
precisely  on  this  account  I  am  too  much  of  a 
naturalist,  and  am  too  fond  of  losing  myself  in 
minute  details.  I  am  as  one,  who,  in  walking,  goes 
leisurely  along,  and  stops  every  moment  to  observe 
the  dash  of  light  that  breaks  through  the  trees  of 
the  woods,  the  insect  that  alights  on  his  hand,  the 
loaf  that  falls  on  his  head,  a  cloud,  a  wave,  a  streak 
of  smoke;  in  fine,  the  thousand  accidents  that 
make  creation  so  rich,  so  various,  so  poetical,  and 
beyond  which  we  evermore  catch  glimpses  of  that 
grand,  mysterious  something,  eternal,  immense, 
benignant,  and  never  inhuman  or  cruel,  as  some 
would  have  us  believe,  which  is  called  God." 


GIULIO  CABCANO,  ARNALDO  FUSINATO, 
AND  LUIGI  MERCANTINI 


No  ONE  could  be  more  opposed,  in  spirit  and 
method,  to  Aleardo  Aleardi  than  Giulio  Carcano ; 
but  both  of  these  poets  betray  love  and  study  of 
English  masters.  In  the  former  there  is  something 
to  remind  us  of  Milton,  of  Ossian,  who  is  still  be 
lieved  a  poet  in  Latin  countries,  and  of  Byron  j 
and  in  the  latter,  Aruaud  notes  very  obvious  resem 
blances  to  Gray,  Crabbe,  and  Wordsworth  in  the 
simplicity  or  the  proud  humility  of  the  theme,  and 
the  courage  of  its  treatment.  The  critic  declares 
the  poet's  aesthetic  creed  to  be  God,  the  family, 
and  country ;  and  in  a  beautiful  essay  on  Domes 
tic  Poetry,  written  amidst  the  universal  political 
discouragement  of  1839,  Carcano  himself  declares 
that  in  the  cultivation  of  a  popular  and  homelike 
feeling  in  literature  the  hope  of  Italy  no  less  than 
of  Italian  poetry  lies.  He  was  ready  to  respond 
to  the  impulses  of  the  nation's  heart,  which  he  had 
felt  in  his  communion  with  its  purest  and  best  life, 
when,  in  later  years,  its  expectation  gave  place  to 
action,  and  many  of  his  political  poems  are  bold  and 
noble.  But  his  finest  poems  are  those  which  cele 
brate  the  affections  of  the  household,  and  poetize 


GIULIO    CARCANO  361 

the  pathetic  beauty  of  toil  and  poverty  in  city  and 
country.  He  sings  with  a  tenderness  peculiarly 
winning  of  the  love  of  mothers  and  children,  and 
I  shall  give  the  best  notion  of  the  poet's  best  in  the 
following  beautiful  lullaby,  premising  merely  that 
the  title  of  the  poem  is  the  Italian  infantile  for 
sleep : 

NANNA. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep !   my  little  girl : 
Mother  is  near  thee.     Sleep,  unfurl 
Thy  veil  o'er  the  cradle  where  baby  lies! 
Dream,  baby,  of  angels  in  the  skies! 
On  the  sorrowful  earth,  in  hopeless  quest, 
Passes  the  exile  without  rest; 
Where'er  he  goes,  in  sun  or  snow, 
Trouble  and  pain  beside  him  go. 

But  when  I  look  upon  thy  sleep, 
And  hear  thy  breathing  soft  and  deep 
My  soul  turns  with  a  faith  serene 
To  days  of  sorrow  that  have  been, 
And  I  feel  that  of  love  and  happiness 
Heaven  has  given  my  life  excess; 
The  Lord  in  his  mercy  gave  me  thee, 
And  thou  in  truth  art  part  of  me! 

Thou  knowest  not,  as  I  bend  above  thee, 
How  much  I  love  thee,  how  much  I  love  thee 
Thou  art  the  very  life  of  my  heart, 
Thou  art  my  joy,  thou  art  my  smart! 
Thy  day  begins  uncertain,  child: 
Thou  art  a  blossom  in  the  wild; 
But  over  thee,  with  his  wings  abroad, 
Blossom,  watches  the  angel  of  God. 
1C 


362  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Ah!  wherefore  with  so  sad  a  face 

Must  thy  father  look  on  thy  happiness? 

In  thy  little  bed  he  kissed  thee  now, 

And  dropped  a  tear  upon  thy  brow. 

Lord,  to  this  mute  and  pensive  soul 

Temper  the  sharpness  of  his  dole: 

Give  him  peace  whose  love  my  life  hath  kept 

He  too  has  hoped,  though  he  has  wept. 

And  over  thee,  my  own  delight, 

Watch  that  sweet  Mother,  day  and  night, 

To  whom  the  exiles  consecrate 

Altar  and  heart  in  every  fate. 

By  her  name  I  have  called  my  little  girl; 

But  on  life's  sea,  in  the  tempest's  whirl, 

Thy  helpless  mother,  my  darling,  may 

Only  tremble  and  only  pray! 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep!   my  baby  dearj 
Dream  of  the  light  of  some  sweet  star. 
Sleep,  sleep!   and  I  will  keep 
Thoughtful  vigils  above  thy  sleep. 
Oh,  in  the  days  that  are  to  come, 
With  unknown  trial  and  unknown  doom, 
Thy  little  heart  can  ne'er  love  me 
As  thy  mother  loves  and  shall  love  thee ! 


ii 


AENALDO  FUSINATO  of  Padua  has  written  for  the 
most  part  comic  poetry,  his  principal  piece  of  this  sort 
being  one  in  which  he  celebrates  and  satirizes  the  stu- 


ABNALDO    FUSINATO.  363 

dent-life  at  the  University  of  Padua.  He  had  after 
ward  to  make  a  formal  reparation  to  the  students, 
which  he  did  in  a  poem  singing  their  many  vir 
tues.  The  original  poem  of  The  Student  is  a  rather 
lively  series  of  pictures,  from  which  we  learn  that  it 
was  once  the  habit  of  studious  youth  at  Padua,  when 
freshmen,  or  matricolini,  to  be  terrible  dandies,  to 
swear  aloud  upon  the  public  ways,  to  pass  whole 
nights  at  billiards,  to  be  noisy  at  the  theater,  to 
stand  treat  for  the  Seniors,  joyfully  to  lend  these 
money,  and  to  acquire  knowledge  of  the  world  at 
any  cost.  Later,  they  advanced  to  the  dignity  of 
breaking  street-lamps  and  of  being  arrested  by  the 
Austrian  garrison,  for  in  Padua  the  students  were 
under  a  kind  of  martial  law.  Sometimes  they  were 
expelled;  they  lost  money  at  play,  and  wrote  de 
ceitful  letters  to  their  parents  for  more;  they 
shunned  labor,  and  failed  to  take  degrees.  But  we 
cannot  be  interested  in  traits  so  foreign  to  what 
I  understand  is  our  own  student-life.  Generally, 
the  comic  as  well  as  the  sentimental  poetry  of 
Fusinato  deals  with  incidents  of  popular  life; 
and,  of  course,  it  has  hits  at  the  fleeting  fashions 
and  passing  sensations:  for  example,  II  Bloom- 
ismo  is  satirized. 

The  poem  which  I  translate,  however,  is  in  a  dif 
ferent  strain  from  any  of  these.  It  will  be  remem 
bered  that  when  the  Austrians  returned  to  take 
Venice  in  1849,  after  they  had  been  driven  out  for 
eighteen  months,  the  city  stood  a  bombardment  of 
many  weeks,  contesting  every  inch  of  the  approach 
with  the  invaders.  But  the  Venetians  were  very  few 


364  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

in  number,  and  poorly  equipped  ;  a  famine  prevailed 
among  them  •  the  cholera  broke  out,  and  raged  fu 
riously  ;  the  bombs  began  to  drop  into  the  square 
of  St.  Mark,  and  then  the  Venetians  yielded,  and 
ran  up  the  white  flag  on  the  dearly  contested  la 
goon  bridge,  by  which  the  railway  traveler  enters 
the  city.  The  poet  is  imagined  in  one  of  the  little 
towns  on  the  nearest  main-land. 


The  twilight  is  deepening,  still  is  the  wave ; 

I  sit  by  the  window,  mute  as  by  a  grave; 

Silent,  companionless,  secret  I  pine; 

Through  tears  where  thou  liest  I  look,  Venice  mine. 

On  the  clouds  brokenly  strewn  through  the  west 
Dies  the  last  ray  of  the  sun  sunk  to  rest; 
And  a  sad  sibilance  under  the  moon 
Sighs  from  the  broken  heart  of  the  lagoon. 

Out  of  the  city  a  boat  draweth  near: 
"You  of  the  gondola!   tell  us  what  cheer!" 
"Bread  lacks,  the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows." 

No,  no,  nevermore  on  so  great  woe, 
Bright  sun  of  Italy,  nevermore  glow! 
But  o'er  Venetian  hopes  shattered  so  soon, 
Moan  in  thy  sorrow  forever,  lagoon! 

Venice,  to  thee  comes  at  last  the  last  hour; 
Martyr  illustrious,  in  thy  foe's  power; 
Bread  lacks,  the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows. 


ARNALDO    FUSINATO.  365 

Not  all  the  battle-flames  over  thee  streaming; 
Not  all  the  numberless  bolts  o'er  thee  screaming ; 
Not  for  these  terrors  thy  free  days  are  dead: 
Long  live  Venice !    She  's  dying  for  bread ! 

On  thy  immortal  page,  sculpture,  0  Story, 

Others'  iniquity,  Venice's  glory  j 

And  three  times  infamous  ever  be  he 

Who  triumphed  by  famine,  0  Venice,  o'er  thee. 

Long  live  Venice  !     Undaunted  she  fell ; 
Bravely  she  fought  for  her  banner  and  well; 
But  bread  lacks;   the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows. 

And  now  be  shivered  upon  the  stone  here 
Till  thou  be  free  again,  0  lyre  I  bear. 
Unto  thee,  Venice,  shall  be  my  last  song, 
To  thee  the  last  kiss  and  the  last  tear  belong. 

Exiled  and  lonely,  from  hence  I  depart, 
But  Venice  forever  shall  live  in  my  heart; 
In  my  heart's  sacred  place  Venice  shall  be 
As  is  the  face  of  my  first  love  to  me. 

But  the  wind  rises,  and  over  the  pale 
Face  of  its  waters  the  deep  sends  a  wail; 
Breaking,  the  chords  shriek,  and  the  voice  dies. 
On  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  flies! 


366  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

Ill 

AMONG  the  later  Italian  poets  is  Luigi  Mercan- 
tini,  of  Palermo,  wlio  has  written  almost  entirely 
upon  political  themes — events  of  the  different  rev 
olutions  and  attempts  at  revolution  in  which  Italian 
history  so  abounds.  I  have  not  read  him  so  thor 
oughly  as  to  warrant  me  in  speaking  very  confi 
dently  about  him,  but  from  the  examination  which 
I  have  given  his  poetry,  I  think  that  he  treats  his 
subjects  with  as  little  inflation  as  possible,  and  he 
now  and  then  touches  a  point  of  naturalness — the 
high- water  mark  of  balladry,  to  which  modern 
poets,  with  their  affected  unaffectedness  and  elabo 
rate  simplicity,  attain  only  with  the  greatest  pains 
and  labor.  Such  a  triumph  of  Mercantini's  is  this 
poem  which  I  am  about  to  give.  It  celebrates  the  dar 
ing  and  self-sacrifice  of  three  hundred  brave  young 
patriots,  led  by  Carlo  Pisacane,  who  landed  on  the 
coast  of  Naples  in  1857,  for  the  purpose  of  exciting 
a  revolution  against  the  Bourbons,  and  were  all 
killed.  In  a  note  the  poet  reproduces  the  pledge 
signed  by  these  young  heroes,  which  is  so  fine  as 
not  to  be  marred  even  by  their  dramatic,  almost 
theatrical,  consciousness. 

We  who  are  here  written  down,  having  all  sworn, 
despising  the  calumnies  of  the  vulgar,  strong  in  the 
justice  of  our  cause  and  the  boldness  of  our  spirits,  do 
solemnly  declare  ourselves  the  initiators  of  the  Italian 
revolution.  If  the  country  does  not  respond  to  our  ap 
peal,  we,  without  reproaching  it,  will  know  how  to  die 
like  brave  men,  following  the  noble  phalanx  of  Italian 


LUIGI    MERCANTINI.  367 

martyrs.  Let  any  other  nation  of  the  world  find  men 
who,  like  us,  shall  immolate  themselves  to  liberty,  and 
then  only  may  it  compare  itself  to  Italy,  though  she  still 
be  a  slave. 

Mercantini  puts  his  poem  in  the  mouth  of  a  peas 
ant  girl,  and  calls  it 

THE    GLEANER    OF     SAPRI. 

They  were  three  hundred ;  they  were  young  and  strong, 

And  they  are  dead! 

That  morning  I  was  going  out  to  glean  5 
A  ship  in  the  middle  of  the  sea  was  seen; 
A  barque  it  was  of  those  that  go  by  steam, 
And  from  its  top  a  tricolor  flag  did  stream. 
It  anchored  off  the  isle  of  Ponza;   then 
It  stopped  awhile,  and  then  it  turned  again 
Toward  this  place,  and  here  they  came  ashore. 
They  came  with  arms,  but  not  on  us  made  war. 
They  were  three  hundred ;  they  were  young  and  strong, 

And  they  are  dead! 

They  came  in  arms,  but  not  on  us  made  war; 
But  down  they  stooped  until  they  kissed  the  shore, 
And  one  by  one  I  looked  them  in  the  face, — 
A  tear  and  smile  in  each  one  I  could  trace. 
They  were  all  thieves  and  robbers,  their  foes  said. 
They  never  took  from  us  a  loaf  of  bread. 
I  heard  them  utter  nothing  but  this  cry : 
"  We  have  come  to  die,  for  our  dear  land  to  die." 
They  were  three  hundred;  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead! 

With  his  blue  eyes  and  with  his  golden  hair 

There  was  a  youth  that  marched  before  them  there, 


368  MODERN    ITALIAN    POETS. 

And  I  made  bold  and  took  him  by  the  hand, 
And  "  Whither  goest  thou,  captain  of  this  band?" 
He  looked  at  me  and  said :   "  Oh,  sister  mine, 
I  'm  going  to  die  for  this  dear  land  of  thine." 
I  felt  my  bosom  tremble  through  and  through; 
I  could  not  say,  "  May  the  Lord  help  you ! " 
They  were  three  hundred;  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead! 

I  did  forget  to  glean  afield  that  day, 
But  after  them  I  wandered  on  their  way. 
And  twice  I  saw  them  fall  on  the  gendarmes, 
And  both  times  saw  them  take  away  their  arms, 
But  when  they  came  to  the  Certosa's  wall 
There  rose  a  sound  of  horns  and  drums,  and  all 
Amidst  the  smoke  and  shot  and  darting  flame 
More  than  a  thousand  foemen  fell  on  them. 
They  were  three  hundred ;  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead! 

They  were  three  hundred  and  they  would  not  fly; 
They  seemed  three  thousand  and  they  chose  to  die. 
They  chose  to  die  with  each  his  sword  in  hand. 
Before  them  ran  their  blood  upon  the  land; 
I  prayed  for  them  while  I  could  see  them  fight, 
But  all  at  once  I  swooned  and  lost  the  sight; 
I  saw  no  more  with  them  that  captain  fair, 
With  his  blue  eyes  and  with  his  golden  hair. 
They  were  three  hundred ;  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead. 


CONCLUSION 

LITTLE  remains  to  be  said  in  general  of  poetry 
whose  character  and  tendency  are  so  single.  It  is, 
in  a  measure,  rarely,  if  ever,  known  to  other  liter 
atures,  a  patriotic  expression  and  aspiration.  Un 
der  whatever  mask  or  disguise,  it  hides  the  same 
longing  for  freedom,  the  same  impulse  toward 
unity,  toward  nationality,  toward  Italy.  It  is  both 
voice  and  force. 

It  helped  incalculably  in  the  accomplishment  of 
what  all  Italians  desired,  and,  like  other  things 
which  fulfill  their  function,  it  died  with  the  need 
that  created  it.  No  one  now  writes  political  poetry 
in  Italy ;  no  one  writes  poetry  at  all  with  so  much 
power  as  to  make  himself  felt  in  men's  vital  hopes 
and  fears.  Carducci  seems  an  agnostic  flowering 
of  the  old  romantic  stalk;  and  for  the  rest,  the 
Italians  write  realistic  novels,  as  the  French  do, 
the  Russians,  the  Spaniards — as  every  people  do 
who  have  any  literary  life  in  them.  In  Italy,  as 
elsewhere,  realism  is  the  ultimation  of  romanti 
cism. 

Whether  poetry  will  rise  again  is  a  question  there 
as  it  is  everywhere  else,  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
idle  prophesying  about  it.  In  the  mean  time  it  is 
certain  that  it  shares  the  universal  decay. 


Compendio  della  Storia  della  Letteratura  Italiana.    Di  Paolo 

Emiliano-Giudici.     Fireiize  :  Poligrafia  Italiana,  1851. 
Della  Letteratura  Italiana.     Esempj  e   Giudizi,  esposti  da 

Cesare  Cantii.     A  Complemento  della  sua  Storia  degli 

Italiani.     Torino:  Presso  PUnione  Tipografico-Editrice, 

1860. 
Storia  della  Letteratura  Italiana.     Di  Francesco  de  Sanctis. 

Napoli  :  Antonio  Morano,  Editore,  1879. 
Saggi  Critici.     Di  Francesco  de   Sanctis.    Napoli:  Antonio 

Morano,  Librajo-Editore,  1869. 
I  Contemporanei    Italiani.      Galleria  Nazionale  del  Secolo 

XIX.     Torino :  DalPUnione  Tipografico-Editrice,  1862. 
L'ltalie   est-elle  la   Terre   des  Morts?    Par  Marc-Monnier. 

Paris:  Hachette  &Cie.,  1860. 
I  Poeti  Patriottici.     Studii  di  Giuseppe  Arnaud.    Milano: 

1862. 
The  Tuscan  Poet  Giuseppe  Giusti  and  his  Times.    By  Susan 

Homer.     London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1864. 


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